In Writing a Letter
by Hikaru Tsukiyono
Summary: RoyMarth. AU. It all started with a blizzard and a few carefully chosen words. Toss in a hotheaded redhead and nagging advisers, the intervention of higher powers, and a faction of rebels, and you have a recipe for disaster... even without his amnesia.
1. In which a blizzard rages

This will be the standard disclaimer-- all characters (aside from the unnamed advisor) are not mine. Essentially, I only take Roy and Marth out to play with, and I always put them back--in more or less one piece. But, anyway... Altea is not mine either, but... yes. Please don't sue, and flames may be directed to the giant carnivorous Goomba over there. Onto the story!

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"Dear—"

No. I can't write that to him. He doesn't want to be treated like a girl, he says. He doesn't want to be coddled or treated delicately, he doesn't want to be showered with gifts or exchange pleasantries, and he hates pet names. By my royal blood, what on earth have I done to anger him so? His fiery temper flared at me no less than two days before, and he still has not returned. What am I to do? The weather has gone from bad to worse, and a village has already been buried by the cold. I must mourn the deaths among my people, and I have a kingdom to rule—but I must find him. He will die if he is brooding someplace secluded like I know he would, especially after such anger… If he burns out his energy and freezes to death, all because of a careless slip of my tongue, I could never forgive myself.

Why? You would ask why? Because I love him. He… did love me, at one time. But I suppose my first error was in keeping him here in this castle, when he is a free spirit. His fire is uncontainable, and I should have known—but I was selfish.

Please do not give me this 'But your Majesty is never selfish!' rubbish. I did not give you your position to feed me such nonsense.

"Roy,"

There. That's a better start. More honest, more open—simple. Just as he likes it… What was that you say? It seems cold, angry? But… what am I to write if not just his name? He does abhor pet names… Very well. Your advice is sagely, though I would ask that you do not let too much praise go to your head. I would prefer an advisor who was not arrogant.

"Dear Roy,"

That's better? Very well. I shall keep it. Thank you.

"Dear Roy,

I do hope you're faring all right."

I sound like a concerned father now? That was clearly not what I meant… oh, by the old kings of Altea, how I do wish letters to him were easier to write!

Not that I do not enjoy the challenge. It is refreshing to have such a vibrant spirit as his to write to, since the work and thought necessary to make him like my writings made it so rewarding when his reply was favorable.

You have something on your mind? Then please do speak it. No, I will not have you executed for being honest—unless, of course, you are planning treason.

Oh, do stop that. Unless you really are (which I doubt, you have been unerringly faithful to me) I will not even consider the thought. I did speak only in jest. Is a prince not allowed to speak in such a manner?

Ah… but why do I love him when he is so stubbornly hard to please? My dear advisor—love can be very blind. I understand that perhaps he needs a little time, but it has been two days already and I am worried. He has never been very good against extreme colds, especially now… he will die unless he takes care of himself properly. Oh, and knowing him, he will likely neglect to do so! How could I have been such a fool!

It is not my fault? My dear advisor, now you speak in jest. It was clearly my fault. I did something to displease him. Please do not tell me to forget him or to believe that he was at fault. He was very upset when he rode out two days ago.

"Dear Roy,

I hope you are safe and unharmed. I send my love and all the warmth you could possibly handle… the weather is quite frigid here and I worry that you might have perhaps been too preoccupied to properly care for yourself in such conditions.

I prostrate myself before you and beg for forgiveness, prince before his general, and ask that you only return to me and let me earn such forgiveness… What was it that I did to anger you so? I wish to remedy this. I do... my heart breaks for the thought of your continued absence. I pray every hour that you will come riding back, both you and your sturdy mount safe from harm.

What is it that displeased you? Was it my selfish wishes, keeping you cooped in the castle? You might come and go as you wished, and I only ask forgiveness for my ignorance. I should have known that your fiery spirit cannot be kept in a stone prison like this, for that might be what my palace was to you.—"

My dear advisor, please, if you do not wish to aid me with this letter, you may leave. If you wish to stay, then please offer advice I may use, instead of ridiculing how I beg for a 'commoner', as you have phrased it. He is no ordinary 'commoner' (and please do not say that as if you are referring to a pile of refuse, the common people have more value in their lives than you seem to believe), he is the general of Altea's armies. I do understand that perhaps he may see this as a way to retrieve the head of the armies that would otherwise be severed with his absence, but you do not understand him at all… or do you?

I do dislike taking suspicious tones, but your sudden silence is most unnerving. Have you interacted with him at all? You tell me these things, but then claim to have not talked to him very much. The man I see—and yes, he firmly declares himself a man, and he has earned the title as well—acts differently than some of your reports might claim. Why did I have you reporting on him at all? I only wanted to see how he was faring with life within the palace without making him feel that I was constantly hounding him… though now I see that perhaps this decision was made in folly. I would have been better off asking him to come to me if he had any difficulty with life here.

… Your refusal to speak is beginning to perhaps make me believe you have not been quite so loyal to me after all. But I will take this up with you later, so as not to taint his letter with the bitterness of suspecting my trust has been betrayed.

"—I would not go so far as placing my kingdom in your hands, but only for my people's sake. I am not so selfish as to promise a kingdom to another for the sake of love (though I do not doubt your ability or integrity.) However, I promise you that I love you unconditionally—if you should choose to tell me that you do not love me as I do you after all, my feelings will not waver. But… please come back safely. I miss you, though it seems strange to say it. Princes are supposedly expected to be detached… but oh, I do not care for protocol when it concerns you. For you, I would give up my crown, my birthright, my wealth—if you wished for me to live the rest of my life as an exile, then I would do so for your sake.

I think of you every day. I only pray that the gods will be kind, and that I have the fortune to see your beautiful face again. Please… do not be afraid of your beauty. It has its own masculinity, for there are many women in the courts and outside who talk of your wondrous features. They only pray that perhaps you would turn your eyes to them. I… as much as it pains me to say so, if you would desire one of them over I, then so be it… I shall not hold any sort of grudge.

I embrace you with all the love in my heart,

Marth."

You would disapprove of displaying such naked emotion on paper? How else am I to convey that I truly do love him, my dear advisor? … Your suggestion that perhaps I do not truly love him is preposterous. I would die for his sake—if it should be my life for his, I would gladly give mine up. I love him… and it is more than you can understand, clearly. We have had enough of this discussion. Now do tell us—what did you say to him?

Why would we presume that you are at fault? Well, we do recall that you explained to us earlier the fact that you were the last to speak with him. What lies did you give to him, so confident that we would never know?

… We have nothing to say. Please get out of our sight. We do not wish to speak with you right now. I will delegate a relation of mine as an heir—you will never force us to leave him for a woman, no matter how noble her blood or how many lands her beauty is sung of in. And to implant such a notion in his head… we are going to find him at once and set things right. You shall not interfere. Is that understood?

Good. I tire of the imperial pronoun… Now please, leave.

* * *

_Riding out into the chill gales of a blizzard, Prince Marth of Altea absently thought how foolhardy this was of him to be out, looking for a single man in a storm like this. But he would not relent, and his intuition did not fail him. After an hour of searching, he found his quarry huddled next to a near-frozen horse, under the meager protection of a low-hanging tree._

_"Roy… oh gods, Roy, thank the powers that you're alive!"_

_"M-marth? I-i-is that you?"_

_"Yes, it's me! I was so worried… please forgive me. I will explain everything once we get back to the castle."_

_"I-I can't move."_

_"W-why not?"_

_"I can't feel my legs… and the horse is sleeping. I wish I could sleep, too… I'm so tired…"_

_"No! Roy, please… you have to stay awake… you have to!"_

_"But… it's so warm… I'm so sleepy…"_

_"You'll _die_ if you go to sleep here! You have to stay awake!"_

_"…Mmm…"_

_"Roy!" Marth shook the red-haired swordsman back to reality. Placing a blanket over the horse that had likely frozen to death, the prince hastily draped his cloak over Roy's chilled form. "Gods, Roy, please stay awake!"_

_He saw no other choice. Quickly hoisting Roy onto his now-tired mount, he leaped astride himself and shouted to the horse to run. Riding at a fast gallop straight back to the castle, there was no one in sight…the streets were empty, and the windows and doors were all securely fastened. No one wanted a stray gust of wind to blow open a door and rob a home of all its hard earned warmth._

_It took only fifteen minutes to get back, Marth checking on the young general every so often. Every time the general closed his eyes, the prince roughly shook him awake, pleading to him to hang on, to just try to stay conscious until they were out of the deadly cold. The soldiers who met them at the gates were shocked at the wild-eyed prince they saw running his horse to near-death in this weather, and stabled the mount quickly, while Marth carried Roy inside, hastily, seeking any warmth—settling with the kitchen hearth, which was the closest. Asking a maid to heat some soup left over from lunch, he tried to wake Roy up fully._

_His hands were like ice. Stripping the general out of his snow-encrusted armor and now soaked clothing, he wrapped him in a warm blanket that had been sitting by the fire (ignoring a maid's protest that it had been for his own bed) and waited, hoping that it would be enough to bring him around._

_"Please, Roy… please wake up… gods, don't leave me here alone! That advisor lied to you! I had no such plans to marry anyone… I only have eyes for you! I could only ever love you!" Marth gripped one of the redhead's death-cold hands, feeling equally cold fear well up inside him. Searching frantically for a pulse, he felt one… but a faint one, growing fainter as cold fear welled up inside him._

_"No… hang on… please…" He kissed Roy's icy lips, and felt no response—there was only the sheer cold. The dread, more frigid than the ice he feared his love had succumbed to, grew even larger. It sank roots into his mind and his body, making his limbs numb and his heart faint. "Please… Roy, I love you. Please don't leave me here alone…" Feeling his hope diminish, Marth turned his eyes to the carved amulet the cooks kept above the fireplace. Murmuring a prayer, he begged the gods not to take his lover away from him…_

_And something strange happened. The kitchen suddenly filled with heat, heat enough to thaw Roy's frozen body. Marth felt himself weaken, unable to bear such temperatures—and he saw Roy open his eyes. Smiling gratefully, he dimly heard a strange, celestial voice murmur, "We granted your wish, Prince of Altea—but in exchange for your lover's life, we want yours." He stood up, shakily, and watched Roy stand up as well—completely nude, save for the blanket. Feeling a kiss pressed to his lips, he struggled to respond in kind—but found only the energy to mouth, "I love you." The last he saw before his vision faded to black was Roy's suddenly panicked face, the general's strong arms catching him as he pitched over backwards. But he smiled anyway, for as he fell he heard his beloved general say, "I love you too."_

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A/N: And here we have a first chapter that seems slightly cliche already. Please refrain from coming after me in an angry mob, though I would not mind one's displeasure being voiced through an angry (or perhaps not so angry, if I'm lucky) review. Thanks a bunch! (insert smile here)

... As for Marth's somewhat formal speech up in the first section... uh... that kinda just seemed to be the way he should talk, being a prince. .;; But, in any case... it's not over yet!


	2. In which love is lost?

In order to accommodate copyright laws, I present a disclaimer --Fire Emblem and all affiliated characters belong not to me,but to the company and mastermind that created them.However, I do take out Roy and Marth to play with every now and then--but they always get put back where they belong, never fear. I make no profit off this, and if nobody sued that would be wonderful, as I have little to pay for a lawsuit with.

Having said such, welcome back returning readers, and for those of you who are new, welcome.Thank you to all my lovely reviewers (I will shower you with virtual cookies and praise in short order, never fear) and for the rest of you -- please enjoy the story.

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_It sang in his ears, the story that was told so many times—of the amulet hidden in the royal Altean kitchen, the one that granted nobles' wishes for a price. But another story claimed the price could be negated, that the gods would retract their curse—only, of course, if one somehow managed to touch their immortal hearts, seated up in the heavens as they were. With so much to watch, so many deaths and births, so many loves gained and lost—it was no wonder the amulet was thought to bring only grief to its user._

Roy woke suddenly, his mouth dry and his parched throat crying for any moisture at all. He was handed a glass of water, which he downed gratefully—immediately becoming sick and losing it all. The voice that softly reprimanded him for drinking too hastily and the hand that rubbed his back as he retched did not belong to his love, though.

As if it was a dream, he remembered the kitchen awash with heat—his eyes focusing on Marth's somehow sadly relieved face. Did he know what he had been doing? The prince had simply collapsed there, after mouthing something at him that the general knew inexplicably was a declaration of love. He had not the energy to even respond to Roy's kiss, the one he'd pressed to his lips in a wish for forgiveness—if he had not been so rash as to just run without asking any questions, Marth would be the one holding him now.

He couldn't bring himself to cry—not in front of the healer who had apparently nursed him back to health. And it was not as if Marth was dead—no, far from it. Across the room, lying still and pale on a bed made up with silken sheets, was the prince. His countenance was calm, his eyes closed, and to all the world perhaps he did look eerily like the body of a man gone to his death with no regrets. But every so often he would take a slow breath, and completely ignoring his current state of dress Roy went over to clasp his lover's hand.

"Gods… if I had just… if I hadn't been so stupid… we wouldn't be in this mess right now."

The healer hesitated, and then left to fetch some balm for the strange burn Roy sported on his left foot, though the redhead himself seemed to pay no heed to it. There was no need to intrude on the moment the young general had clearly needed so badly with the prince… their relationship was no secret within the castle, after all. Most simply accepted it as the will of the prince, and left it at that… after all, they thought, who were they to question him?

Marth's hand felt like ice. It sent a shiver up Roy's spine, thinking of the frosty winds that had nearly taken his own life, but he held it to his cheek, wishing the ice would thaw and give him his love back. For a moment, he thought he felt the prince's thumb gently wipe away the single tear that had trickled out of his eyes, but he dismissed it as imagination and placed the noble's hand back at his side.

"I hope you can forgive me… gods, I can't forgive myself. You used that damned amulet, for me, and I can't… I can't lose you, not to the whims of any holy pantheon of gods, or any stupid magical trinket! I can't! I… don't think I could love anyone else either…

"I should have just asked you… but I got so angry because I thought that maybe you'd just been using me, like a concubine with extra trimming… gods, I wish I hadn't been so stupid. If you hadn't come out to look for me, I would've just frozen to death out there… and I guess I would have hurt you more if I had died. But… you can't leave me either! I know you're sleeping, but… if you die, I have to come chase you down, even if it means following you into death…"

Perhaps it was only Roy's distraught mind forcing him to hear things, but somehow he suddenly heard laughter like many church bells. Then a strangely familiar celestial voice cut through the air.

"Stop."

Roy let his panic show on his face for the second time within thirty-two hours as everything, himself seeming to be the only exception, stopped. The old clock that ticked its second hand towards a full minute paused, half-way to the fifty-fourth second—and how long would this last? Outside, the birds stopped singing, some in mid-chirp… and Marth's steady breathing, akin more to one comatose than to a sleeper, stopped at an exhale.

What kind of madness was this? He checked his prince's pulse, then the clock's mechanisms… and though he found nothing on the former, the latter appeared to have all its cogs and gears well oiled and tuned flawlessly, to run smoothly and reliably. The birds had not simply been silenced by a hawk an inexperienced falconer had accidentally let loose—there had been no great bird's hunting cry, and the little songbirds had not sung anything to imply that they were alarmed in any way.

"What… what is the meaning of this?" the young general demanded, visibly shaken. "If he's dead, I care not whether you are gods or devils—I will find him even in death, and have my vengeance upon you who would try to take him away from me!"

The voice laughed merrily. "Ah, to hear a young lover, feeling as if fate itself tore him unfeelingly from his very soul and swearing such blasphemous things with such courageous irreverence—it is an oddly refreshing thing, a change from the old priests who chant our prayers in the same monotone day after day. And all for the sake of love? General Roy, born in the Pharae Principality—you have caught our eyes. So, mortal… let us bargain for your lover."

"He's not a plaything or a bargaining chip! Give me back my prince!"

"Your prince? Ah, young general—that is where you have erred. He is loved by so many that he is not just your prince any more. Perhaps his advisor was right… he should have made an attempt to procure a wife and secure an heir."

"He swore to me! He swore that he would never leave me! I… I was foolish and believed that advisor, but Marth came after me and made that damned wish to you with that cursed amulet! And now he's colder than death and yet breathing—are you going to dangle him before my eyes to torture me longer? Are you going to dishonor his wish by killing him when what he wished was that he not be separated from me by death?"

"He did not phrase it so… but very well. You are more interesting than the priests at the shrines—perhaps this once we shall humor you. But nothing we grant comes without a price."

"I can take anything… be it plague, war, famine, sickness—if it is for him, I will endure, and come out triumphant! I pledged myself to him, both my heart and my sword… no god will keep me from him, no matter how mighty!"

"You are indeed an amusing mortal. Promising us pain when we cannot feel it, swearing an oath of vengeance against us if we do not honor what conditions your tacticians' wit has imposed upon us within the boundaries of a wish… We do find it ever so entertaining when once every hundred years a mortal attempts to defy us, but none as fiery as you, General of Altea. We will honor your passion with a trial of love and patience—when your beloved prince awakens, he will remember nothing more of you than that you were very dear to him." Roy's eyes widened.

"What… what do you mean by 'trial of love and patience'? This will be no more than endless pain, if he does not know who I am or what we were to each other… I believed you suited your own whims, but this is not the work of fancy, this is cruel!"

"You form your conclusions too quickly, boy." The voice sounded irritated, as if mildly irked at being accused of being cruel. "Did we say he will completely forget of his love for you? We will honor his wish, and your terms. If your love for him is strong enough to spark that ember, then he shall regain his memory. But you have only a year to do so… if you fail, if your passion is not as great as your fearlessly shouted blasphemy might lead us to believe, he shall marry a princess from a different kingdom—and you will be forced to watch and accept that he, from then on, will no longer be solely yours. Do you agree to this game?"

Game? The gods believed this was only a game? Perhaps to them it was, but… his piece held his soul, and losing meant that his heart would break. Was it truly worth it?

Roy shook the doubts from his head. It was either this or watching his lover slowly waste away in a deathlike sleep, though it could be months or even years before he died. He deserved better, he thought. "I… accept."

The laughter came again, as delighted as before—many church bells ringing out the joy of a newlywed couple. But the red-haired swordsman could not find himself to smile at the sound, for even as it faded, time restarted—and his began to slowly tick its way to nothing.

* * *

Marth slowly opened his eyes to find a beautiful stranger with clear blue eyes and red hair sitting dejectedly by his bedside. He looked so familiar, and there was a pang of something inside his chest—like he had known this person, and loved them very much. 

Before he could say anything, though, the stranger noticed that the prince was awake. "Good morning… or rather, good afternoon, your Highness." His voice was deep, pleasingly so, noted the prince.

"How long have I been asleep, l—kind stranger?" Why had he been so suddenly compelled to call this man 'love', when he did not even know him?

Having suddenly perked up when the first 'l' had been pronounced, the young man slumped down again. "I… I don't know, your Highness. I have myself been receiving care from the healers in this room. We were found in a kitchen, myself barely conscious, and you appearing as if you hovered upon the brink of death. I thank the gods that you are not deathly ill, my prince." His eyes were really very pretty, Marth thought. But… did he know what he had unknowingly tried to say?

"Please… such formalities should not be necessary, especially not here—the healers tend to commoner and noble alike in this fair kingdom. Might I ask your name?" Marth smiled gently, and for one bewildering second the young man looked upset.

Within a blink of an eye the stranger recomposed himself and said, plainly, "My name is Roy… I am the General of the Altean Armies. It is a pleasure to meet you, Prince Marth."

"Please… just Marth is fine. It seems sudden because we have only justmet, but I trust you very much… I feel like I know you from somewhere, my general."

"Then I must ask you to call me Roy, my prince."

It felt so achingly familiar that for a moment Roy wished he could simply bury his face in the prince's chest and sob his story out, but he knew—that was no way to win Marth back. His memory might never be restored if he made such an awkward gesture. Bowing respectfully, he murmured, "If I may take my leave, my prince… I feel quite recovered, and hope that you too feel well soon."

Nodding somewhat reluctantly (for while he didn't know why, he enjoyed Roy's company very much), Marth retreated into deep thought. Meditating on the strange phenomenon of such familiarity with a man his memory could swear upon never meeting before, he did not notice the healer walking in with a jar of burn salve.

"If I might ask, is there anything you can tell me about that man who was in here with me?" Marth inquired of the healer, who now occupied himself with checking to see that the prince was not injured or ill in any way.

The healer's eyes widened. "Your Highness, if I may have permission to speak freely…"

"You have no need to ask, my friend. You are a healer—you treat all of our people fairly as mandated by Altean law. By all means, tell me anything you would like!"

"Your Highness, his name is Roy. He was born in the Pharae Principality, but met you and became your general… and you and he were lovers. It was… it was said that you two were very much in love, so much that in his sleep last night (there was a different healer with him then, so I was not witness to this) he screamed defiance at the gods who would dare try to take you away from him."

"… I see."

The healer looked down and said a quick prayer.

"My friend, what was that for?" The prince was clearly puzzled.

"I… I only pray, your Highness, that those of your advisors who did not support your relationship with the general not hear word of your… somehow misplaced memory. They never did understand how much you really did love him, but… if you cannot remember, they will try to make you marry a girl from another kingdom faster than you can unsheathe Falchion..."

"Thank you, my friend… I will find Roy, then, and try to explain to him what has happened… and perhaps we might start over."

"I wish you the best of luck, your Highness."

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End of chapter thoughts: Well, I wrote myself into a rather awful cliffhanger, so I decided that this was where the chapter ended. I'm sorry, guys, there will definitely be more--though an update every day will be pushing it. I will try putting up a new chapter (or chapters, it depends on how proficient I was that week) every Saturday. So-- see you then! 

Also-- if anyone has anything helpful that they'd like to contribute (like writing tips, proofreading tips, plot tricks, etc.) I'd love to hear it. Drop me a line, or a review--anything, really-- and I'll shower you with sincere thanks and perhaps virtual cakes if I run out of cookies.

Also... can anyone tell me if I got the hawk-handler name right? I'm sorry... I must go research this before I embarrass myself with my ignorance.


	3. Diaries, ultimatums, and poison

And here we have the usual disclaimer: Marth, Roy, Fire Emblem, and Super Smash Brothers belong not to me, but to their respective creators. Here I bow my head and cry because Marth and Roy have just been so contrary lately that it gets harder to write them. ;;

Thank you to my lovely reviewers as usual (I'm sending hugs and pie this time... XD) Constructive criticism will never be seen as rude, so don't be afraid to speak up if you think this sucks. On to the story!

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_Fingering a slender chain that hung around his neck, Roy scribbled pensively in a small book. It was something that he'd never let anyone see—something he could not afford to let anyone see. The book held everything he could possibly put in it—what he tended to request for his midday meal on the week's third day, his hopes and dreams, who he loved (though everyone knew this one already, and he'd written this down several times anyway) and sometimes the particularly striking dreams he'd had. The erotic dreams of his younger days, from before Marth had become his lover, had returned, and some of them now lay recorded within the book—it was all of their nights together that he had left now._

_In silence, he cleaned the nib of his pen, capped the inkwell, and put away his writing materials. Giving the book a few minutes of air to allow the ink to dry, he moved aimlessly about his chamber, doing the little mundane things that required little thought. It was perhaps after he'd polished the Sword of Seals for the fifth time that he realized the ink was likely dry and he could put the book away—but instead of hiding it in his desk, he opted to slip it into his armor. Maybe if it he got desperate enough, he could let Marth read it…_

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At the very moment that the prince stepped foot into the throne room, he was mobbed by his advisors, each asking or suggesting something different. Most of the suggestions, however, ran along the lines of marriage—and each of the candidates suggested, of course, had some sort of tie to each advisor. Marth sighed and wondered why he hadn't simply found new advisors who were not mostly interested in raising their own statuses. 

"Your Highness, it seems to be in your best interest to find a wife soon!"

"How about Princess Malon?"

"No, Princess Laila!"

"You are mistaken, it is clear that Peach is the only eligible choice!"

"Well, Miss Lilina seems a very nice choice as well."

"It doesn't matter, really… but Prince Marth, you should get married at some point…"

"Your Highness, there is a rebel faction calling itself the Embyrr Faction that has risen against the royal family. This faction's goal is to destroy the royal line and create a new Altea from the ashes of the old… "

Ah. So there was something interesting in this madness. "Has this faction delivered a statement of any sort, Daryl?"

The advisor nodded. "Yes, your Highness—an ultimatum was delivered not more than twelve hours ago. I have it here if you would like to read it." Daryl offered a rather imposing roll of parchment.

"Hmm… high quality parchment, intricately-patterned wax seal, silk ribbons… it seems as if they spent a fair amount on just one message. It is doubtful that it would be a very flattering one at that, but… I suppose it is my duty to see what it is they desire of us."

Scanning the elegant script (was there a noble on their side? Most of the common-born of Altea could not write like this, though he had personally seen to it that the kingdom learned to read and write) the prince noticed a cease in the babble of the advisors wishing only to talk of an impending marriage. 'Finally,' he thought, for a moment distracted from the message.

Something was strange, though. He found himself beginning to pace in front of his advisors, reading the same line over again. "If you can read this, you have survived our first attempt on your life. Never forget, Prince, that the tiniest needles can be deadlier than swords in the right hands." What on earth was that supposed to mean?

Suddenly, though, as a step brought him in line with an advisor who matched him in height, the man choked, hands suddenly clawing at the back of his neck. He collapsed to the floor frothing at the mouth and twitching, as if he was some ghastly marionette whose strings were being cut.

Bending down to examine the man despite the protests from the others that this was hardly appropriate for a prince, Marth found what appeared to be a dark bruise forming in a perfect circle. Protruding from the center was a single tiny needle, topped by a needle-thin glass tube that held some strange black substance. The noxious-looking fluid dripped down the needle and into the puncture, and the monarch knew at once. Poison.

"Bring me two of the healers, immediately! If the poison has not progressed too far, we may still be able to save him! Daryl, find the guards and tell them to be wary of an intruder. There is an assassin in the castle wielding poisoned needles and a blow pipe." Turning his attention once again to the needle, he gingerly pulled it out of the man's neck and placed it inside a small wooden box he couldnot bring himself to stop carrying around. Perhaps it was something from the General that he knew and yet could not remember… Shaking the thoughts of the young man from his head, his vision suddenly swam. In shock, he glanced at his fingers—the digits had come away from the needle black as the venom an advisor now lay in the clutches of.

Why was the room suddenly unfocusing? His poison covered fingers suddenly spasmed, and pain that felt like his very blood screaming oozed its way up his arm. Prince Marth bit down on his lip to avoid giving the assassin the pleasure of hearing him cry out in a most un-princely manner, but a muffled yelp still made its way through. 'What manner of poison is this? I've never read anything on these effects before… Gods, I hope it isn't fatal. I still have to rule the kingdom, I can't… I have no heir yet… I can't afford to die… oh gods… Roy…' Why had the general's name crossed his mind at that very last minute? The prince did not have time to think on his own question, though, for in that second his eyes rolled back and he fell unconscious.

* * *

"General! General Roy! Something has happened to the prince!" a page called, urgently. 

He did not know what possessed him so that he tore out of his chambers at a breakneck pace, dashing through the halls until he reached the throne room. A healer was already tending to one of Marth's advisors—it was the one who had never pressured the prince to marry, Roy thought regretfully—and another was attempting to wake the prince.

Completely unannounced (having left the unfortunate page in the dust several corridors back) he stared in shock at Marth's still form. Kneeling down next to the monarch, the general felt for a pulse—and found one, thanking the powers that be that the older swordsman was still alive. "What happened to him?" he demanded, fear making his voice a little sharper than necessary.

"I don't know!" the healer cried. "All I know is that his advisors came running in babbling something about poison and I find not only the advisor who was hit, but his Highness like this as well!"

Roy heard little after the first three words. Scanning Marth's body for anything unusual, he found that one hand was clamped around a little wooden box he recognized. Smiling raggedly, he gently pried the box from the older swordsman's grip and opened it. Inside was a needle that stained the plush lined interior black—or he thought it was just a needle, until he realized that part of the upper needle was really a glass tube, cleverly fashioned to fit the needle and appear as if part of it. Inside the glass was a slowly dripping black fluid.

He reeled as realization struck. Without even realizing what he was doing, he abruptly shoved the box into the healer's hands, warning him not to touch the needle. With a complete lack of respect or decorum that made the healers blanch, he began to yell at the prince, his fear twisting his anger into something like a hysterical parent's reprimands.

"What on earth were you thinking? Why did you go touching that needle when you KNEW it was carrying poison? You IDIOT! Gods, you're going to KILL YOURSELF someday by doing something like this, and where is that going to leave me? Are you just going to LEAVE ME ALONE? WHAT KIND OF LOVER ARE YOU?" Realizing what he had just said, Roy clamped his jaw shut with a click. "He doesn't remember… that's right…" he told himself sourly, unconsciously letting a tear fall. It landed on one of Marth's fingers, washing some of the poison off—but it was a detail the swordsman completely overlooked, feeling himself overwhelmed with a sense of despair and defeat.

-------

One of the healers saw, though, and took off at a run to get mild salt-water from the kitchens. It was highly unlikely that the general would simply cry the monarch back from unconsciousness, after all.

Returning with a bowl half full of the salt-water and several cloths, he picked up the prince's poison-stained hand and began to wash it off. Within minutes of the venom's removal, Marth began to stir.

"Are you all right, your Highness?" asked the first healer.

"Yes… I'm fine. How does my advisor fare?" The prince looked around for the wooden box, a puzzled look coming into his eyes when he found it in the hands of the other healer. Meeting Roy's eyes for a second, he looked away when the healers told him that all of their efforts had been fruitless.

"He was dead before we could get here. Please forgive us—if we could have arrived sooner, he may have lived. But… how did he get such poison into his body?"

Marth informed them about the needle, how someone hiding in the shadows of the throne room had either thrown or blown the needle from a pipe towards him and how only luck and an advisor unfortunate enough to stand between him and the assassin had saved him.

"I also had a strange dream that the general there was yelling at me, and then I felt his tears fall onto the poison and wash it away…" the prince added, smiling a little at the somewhat absurd notion of tears with healing properties.

Roy coughed and looked embarrassed. "Er… your Highness, it was only one tear on the general's part. We saw that and thought perhaps saltwater worked on it… and it seems to have completely dissolved, so…" The healer that had spoken trailed off, having no idea what else to say.

Marth's smile grew softer, for the moment not thinking about the funeral preparations that he had to make for perhaps his most faithful advisor. "Then thank you, Roy… I believe if you hadn't cared so much I would in all likelihood still be lying here like a breathing corpse."

Wincing slightly at the prince's choice of words, Roy stood up and bowed, mechanically saying, "It was no sacrifice on my part… I only wish for your safety, your Highness." He could not understand why he was suddenly so reluctant to speak to him… but right now they had no time to exchange idle speech. There was possibly a funeral to arrange, and an assassin to catch. Speaking of which… "By the way… did anyone send a page to fetch me?"

When the healers all shook their heads, Roy frowned. "Do you know if Daryl might have sent a page? Daedalus? Robespierre? Anyone at all?" Again, the answer was a negative.

"Then how did he know?" His eyes widened. "Were there any servants in the vicinity at the time you were attacked, my prince?"

"I don't believe so, General." The general's eyes narrowed, as if to say he knew who it was. "Is there something you would like to tell me, Roy?" Marth picked himself up off the floor, sparing a sad glance at his advisor's body.

"I'll do that later… I have to go catch him first…" the younger swordsman muttered, performing a hasty bow and nearly sprinting out of the room.

"Very well then…" Completely unruffled by Roy's suddenly absent decorum, he bent down and checked his advisor's pulse again—and contrary to the healers' belief, there was still a faint heartbeat going. "Gods have mercy—he's still alive! Will the saltwater work on him too?"

Pulling out a few handkerchiefs, the prince wiped the foam away from his advisor's mouth, and told him, "Hold on. The healers will cure you." He could only pray that they had discovered that he was alive in time.

* * *

"Hey… you were the one that told me Prince Marth was in trouble, right?" 

The page turned around to face General Roy, who had come back wearing a smile—albeit not a very nice smile, but perhaps he was attached to the prince in some manner. "Y-yes…"

"Who sent you to find me?"

He gulped. The general's blue eyes were drilling holes into his head, even as he waited for an answer. "I… I…"

"Well?"

"I… I… nobody!"

"Really… no one sent you, and you came to find me? Most servants don't bother with me unless they have orders to. I'm too close to them, they think… but it doesn't bother me too much." In one smooth motion Roy had the page pinned to a wall. "Now… who are you, and where did you get that poison?"

"Very well done, General." The page sneered at him, before producing a needle and stabbing it into his arm. The general cursed and pulled out the needle, swaying slightly—but the boy's pause before fleeing was enough time to snatch a leather pouch from the boy's belt. Hopefully it contained something useful and not money—but he could not check this, for the poison's effects had caught up with him and he collapsed.

---------

He had not been hasty enough to escape, losing a few precious items to Roy's clutches. But his fear of being caught overrode the reason that told him he should retrieve the antidote that the general had taken, even if the swordsman was now completely vulnerable to anyone who came his way. Shucking off the gloves that had let him handle the needles without harm, he discarded them at a servants' exit and fled into the city, wondering how he would be rewarded for poisoning the general of the Altean armies.

* * *

A/N: And that's all for the third chapter. Sorry… there are a lot of blackouts in this one. Everyone will stay conscious next chapter, I promise! XD 


	4. Misunderstandings and held breath

Hello, all... It's me again. Like stated in the three chapters before this, I do not own Marth, Roy, Fire Emblem, or Super Smash Brothers. So... if I do not ever find myself needing to defend against a lawsuit, that would be wonderful.

Welcome back to In Writing a Letter, my lovely readers! I'd like to shout out to my wonderful reviewers, and a big thank you goes to my beta The Tears of Ages! For this chapter, we have **yaoi **warnings. It's not so graphic as to go over the rating for this story, but there is clearly something going on--therefore, not recommended for anyone who finds this type of material squicky. For the rest of you who don't mind so much-- enjoy!  
_

* * *

_

_I feel like I'm floating on nothing—like there are strings suspending me from the sky, strings I can't feel. Marth, where are you? I wish I could see you, but I can't see anything right now—it's too dark. _

_It's almost like I'm floating in that poison from the needle that kid stabbed me with—gods curse him! He's definitely long gone by now, and I don't know if I even got anything worth stealing from him… Hell, it hurts. The stupid needle actually hurts… I don't believe it._

_Huh… I think I can hear Marth's voice. But why would he be talking to me? I thought he was busy with arranging that advisor's funeral… hmm, where'd that pouch go? I can't find it… I thought it was right there! Maybe that kid came back and took it… but no, I remember I heard heavy footsteps that sounded like the castle guards. If he came back he would've gotten caught…_

_Who turned on the lights? I can't see anything at all, it's too bright._

_… When I get out of this place, I'm definitely going to kill whoever's making me drink this vile stuff… Marth tastes a whole lot better, although I suppose that was because I could hear him telling me how nice it felt to have my mouth—wait… I'm not going there right now! _

_I thought I was going to die. What's happening?_

_"... Roy? Can you hear me?"_

_… Hell, it's either that awful tasting liquid or the poison that's making me hallucinate. I could have sworn I just saw a god who looked exactly like Marth…_

_Wait… is that really Marth? He sounds different…

* * *

_

Roy's eyes opened slowly, wincing as his dilated pupils took in far too much light for comfort. Seeing Marth standing at the side of the bed he was lying on, he tried to sit up quickly and nearly passed out again.

"Careful—the poison isn't entirely out of your body yet. What happened?"

"I… there was a boy posing as a page who told me you had been exposed to some kind of danger, so I got worried, and I ran down to the throne room. After that, when the healers said that they didn't think anyone had sent a page after me, I got suspicious and confronted him, but he got me with a needle and ran off. I took something before he managed to get away, but I don't know if it was even useful…" The general was cut off by the prince's gentle laugh.

"It's all right, Roy. You somehow managed to take the antidote from him—and your luck must have been good today. Not only did you obtain the antidote, but there was a written recipe for the antidote as well, and the boy's orders. Everything is fine here for now." Roy thought he heard something in the prince's voice that was off, but dismissed it as simply being still affected by the poison.

"Your Highness… what happened to me afterwards, though? Why am I here?"

"We went in the direction of your room and found you lying on the floor of a corridor with the leather pouch you took from our would-be assassin. So we brought you here, to the healers' bay… this would be the second time you were in here within the space of two days, am I correct?" The monarch smiled gently, as if to say he was only teasing.

"… Yes, your Highness."

Something in Marth's expression hardened at the young general's refusal to stop using his title. "We're in the healers' bay… here, both of us are equal. Do call me by name…" It was a little peculiar, the way something in his eyes remained utterly confused as to why he was so angry about Roy addressing him in such a manner. Wasn't it supposed to be this way? But… the whims of princes were made to be carried out, so it seemed. Thankfully Marth was not the type to wind the kingdom around his little finger for his personal enjoyment.

"I'm sorry, your—I mean, Marth."

"That's much better… now, how do you feel, Roy?"

"I feel all right… I don't feel capable of fighting off any armies, but I think I can get up now… thank you."

"Would you accompany me to my chambers, then? There is something I need to discuss with you that must be said in private."

--------

Roy felt disgusted with himself as he realized that even with the antidote in his system the poison still wreaked some havoc with the rest of his body. His legs felt as if made of jelly, and whenever he took a step he swayed slightly, feeling dizzy and light-headed. The general was forced to lean on the prince all the way to his bedroom, where he was made to sit down on the bed before he fell.

"What was it you wished to speak to me about, my prince?"

"There is a rebel faction who has mobilized against us, Roy. They wish to eradicate the royal family's line and 'raise a new Altea from the ashes of the old', as they put it. The statement they sent claims that their people are everywhere, even in this castle itself. Will you stand by me?"

"Always, my prince—is there need to ask?" 'Did you even forget that I swore my heart and sword to you for all eternity?' the younger man thought, his eyes betraying only the slightest hint of distress.

"Thank you, my general…" Almost absently Marth laid a kiss on the red-haired swordsman's forehead. Roy blinked, and while his eyes were closed a voice whispered, "Stop."

Then he opened his eyes, and Marth's lips left his forehead and pressed themselves to his in a hungry kiss. Immediately he responded in kind, feeling overwhelming relief wash over him. He remembered! Yet… had there not been a god's voice in the air before this? Pushing such doubts aside, the general let himself fall into the grip of his passion, all thought abandoned.

After the kiss was broken, the prince licked away the solitary tear that ran down his general's face. Nimble fingers that remembered well sought out the buckles and clasps that fastened their clothing, and soon both men were completely exposed to each other's eyes.

Trailing butterfly kisses down his abdomen, Marth's tongue dipped into Roy's navel, evoking a startled groan and spreading a smile across the prince's face. For the young general, this was nothing new—except for how especially eager the prince seemed to be, doing this. Then he could not even wonder about that, for cool slick fingers ventured downwards and pressed in. He could only gasp, writhe and moan helplessly, and sob (however uncharacteristically) for having missed the feeling of Marth's skin against his own—and the prince did not say a word, swallowing both of their cries of pleasure with a deep kiss as they flew over the brink.

* * *

Marth woke up with a start to find himself completely devoid of his normal sleepwear—or any clothing, for the matter. It was only the beginning of evening, so the calmly ticking clock told him, and the lingering smell of sweat and passion told him everything else. 

But who had been his lover? That was easily explained by the warm body he felt at his side—and when he turned to look, he found his beautiful general lying there, still held in sleep's gentle grasp. 'What… what happened?' The prince slipped quietly out of bed, clearly ill at ease now. Pulling on a bath robe, he walked into the bathroom to cleanse himself—and perhaps remove the fog from his memory while he washed.

--------

Meanwhile, Roy opened his eyes with a sated smile on his face. He felt… triumphant. It was like he'd just managed to beat the gods at their own game. "He remembers me," the general murmured, wanting to suddenly spring out of bed and shout this from the highest tower in the castle—though he doubted that his lover would really approve of doing so.

Marth's half of the bed was empty now, he discovered, but still warm. He was likely bathing, and preparing to go into the throne room again to hold audiences with whomever wished to make their concerns clear to him… but of course, he'd come back in and kiss him properly awake, first. Maybe they'd go for another quick round… though that would make the prince late. No, that wouldn't do… maybe he'd simply please his love with his hands or mouth…

The young general was so lost in his daydream that he missed Marth's return to the bedroom entirely. "Good evening, love."

'Praise the powers that be, he really does remember me!' Forgetting about his state of undress, Roy sprang up out of bed and flung his arms around the monarch in a tight embrace. "Gods, I missed you, my prince… I love you. I thought I'd lost you forever… but I'm glad you remember me now…"

The prince really had had no clue why he had called the general "love." For the matter, it was even more puzzling to have such a passionate declaration made to him, and to make matters worse the young man hadn't a stitch of clothing on his body at the moment. But when Roy gently tugged him down for a kiss, he allowed it—he knew his kisses from somewhere, and he liked them, though he didn't know why. After all, most of his advisors would frown on such a thing… yet Marth could not bring himself to care at this point. After all, advisors only gave advice—it was really up to the ruler to make the decisions, was it not?

Breaking the kiss for air, the prince smiled somewhat distractedly and asked, "I apologize, my general, but… please, tell me what happened? I woke besides you, and I doubt our sleeping together was platonic at all…"

He wished instantly that he could take back his words. The young general's face fell, and his tight embrace instantly slackened and fell away. "Oh… we… I was under the impression that we were making love." The utter disappointment in his voice made the prince's heart wrench painfully. Marth wanted to hold Roy closely, tightly, and not let him go until he understood that he didn't want to hurt him… but his protocol stood in the way, and for a second he did nothing.

It was one second too long. Without waiting for the monarch to explain anything, the general pulled on his clothing and bowed deeply, subserviently. "If you require my services in any other way, your Highness, please call on me," he said, ice coating his otherwise immaculately polite tone. Then the young man fled, presumably back to his own chambers.

'What have I done?' Marth asked himself silently, wishing that he were not so irreplaceable. If he could have, he would have taken Falchion to himself at that moment… it seemed only fitting punishment for making the beautiful general believe that he had only used him. 'I cheapened his declaration of love to me, I hurt him… gods, I don't deserve to live. He deserves better…'

Then, as if a godsend to make his life more complicated, he remembered… the taste of Roy's skin beneath his lips, the general's back arched and his head thrown back in the clutches of ecstasy. He could see it before his eyes, as if it had happened at that moment—the way Roy's exposed neck begged for him to taste it, and how arousing the younger man's gasps and cries of rapture were… And then he remembered too, how he felt as if he were not in control of his own body… how a strangely familiar voice with a laugh like ringing church bells had taken control of his body, how he could not move a muscle without the voice's consent. And when this had happened, the general's clear sapphire eyes were closed, so that he could not see when the prince's blazed with otherworldly light for that split-second. He did not know…

It left him in an even deeper pit of guilt. His conscience told him that if he had no control, it was not his fault… but hadn't the general said something about him finally remembering? Perhaps he had been his lover, and now—he could not remember. 'Some lover I am,' thought the prince, beginning to unabashedly hate himself. 'He tells me that he loves me, and all I can do is ask what happened… Do I even deserve to exist?'

--------

If he had been in the throne room at the moment, he would have met the page who had frantically been trying to locate either him or the general with another message from the Embyrr Faction. If he had been there… well, he would not have been so vulnerable. But here he was in his bedroom, dressed in nothing but a thin shirt and plain leather breeches, completely helpless. Falchion sat propped up in its sheath some five feet away from the bed where he lay, his eyes closed, utterly loathing his own tactlessness despite the insistent voice in his mind that told him it was not his fault. He squelched the voice immediately, telling himself that an inability to remember was no excuse for being insensitive.

Perhaps if he had not been so lost in thought, he would have noticed the two masked figures garbed in black stealing quietly into his room. He certainly noticed when one took a pillow (the one which Roy had slept on, ironically) and pressed it down harshly over his face. Managing a single deep inhale before the pillow made contact, the prince attempted to struggle for a second before realizing that he was only wasting his breath, and quieted, subduing his instinctive panic. He only prayed that someone would come to his aid (as embarrassing as it was to have to be constantly rescued) before he ran out of air.

It wasn't until about a minute had passed with the pillow over his face that the grimmer train of thought emerged. What if no one came?

---

The general cursed as he realized he'd left a rather important personal article in the prince's room. Why on earth he'd chosen to tuck it into his armor was beyond him—but no matter. He simply had to go get it… and as he turned around and began heading back the way he'd come, he realized how eerily silent the castle was. It was far too early for everyone to be asleep…

Two corridors had come and gone, and there had not been a sign of life anywhere. As he neared Marth's quarters, he heard a pair of strange voices arguing—and he knew that something was definitely up. 'Oh no…' Roy unsheathed the Sword of Seals and broke into a sprint, hoping that he had not been too slow.

* * *

A/N: And chapter four is brought to a close. I'm sorry... I couldn't wait to update. I will go write the fifth chapter when I can... I promise. 


	5. Assassins, temper, and reconciliation

Hello again, welcome to chapter 5. Standard disclaimer applies (in that I own no aspect of SSBM, Fire Emblem, Marth, or Roy), and a lawsuit-free writing career would be most wonderful.

Anyway... thanks to The Tears of Ages, my awesome beta, and I shower my thousand bushels of gratitude upon my lovely reviewers! And... guilty as charged, this is an early (late) update. :D Enjoy!

* * *

"Delta, you idiot… you just had to choose this method. It'll take him a good while to die at this rate, and we don't have that kind of time!" 

"And how do you know that, Theta?"

"If you were smart, you would have paid attention when they gave us our orders. Good thing the prince was totally out of it when we came in, otherwise you would never have gotten him."

"Shut up! The hell do you know?"

"This is why I was put in charge of this assassination, you blockhead. If we run out of time we'll just have to use that oversized cleaver over there."

"Falchion? Can you even pick it up?"

"Feh… if the pretty boy here can do it, I can."

"What are you going to do with it? Cut off his head?"

"That's too cliché. We're looking for something more dramatic—how about puncturing his lungs? That way he'll either just suffocate or go out with a bloody last kiss… not that we care much either way. We just have to get the job done."

"Dramatic? What on earth? What's wrong with you, man?"

_Ready…_

"Hey, we're trying to make a statement here. Besides," the thug drawled calmly, turning to face his partner-in-crime (who held the pillow) "there's not a person in the palace who comes here as much as the general did, and he's dead. Lambda's boy got him after knocking off one of his Highness' advisors by mistake. But in any case, that means we've got plenty of time."

_Set…_

"So… what's the reward for his Highness' death?"

"Oh, it's a pretty sum all right—all of—"

_Oh, SCREW IT!  
_

In less than a second the doors slammed open to admit an agitated red-haired general, who flew into the room and impaled one of the men with the Sword of Seals. As Delta's lifeless body dropped like a stone, Roy twisted the blade and pulled it out smoothly, yanking the pillow off of Marth's carefully composed features—only now beginning to show the strain of depending on the oxygen from a single breath. Letting out a sigh of relief as he saw the monarch exhale, he turned his attention to the thug who had brashly declared being in charge.

Making a quick feint to the left, the remaining assassin dove under the general's sword arm and nearly made it out of the room—if not for the slim knife that hissed through the air and sank neatly into his left calf. The man immediately tumbled to the floor, trying to pull out the knife and shrieking in horror as he discovered the thin barbs on the blade's edges.

"Forgive my tardiness, your Highness… you could have been killed for my negligence." A boy whose face looked strangely familiar to Roy (though he could not place why) stepped in from behind a curtain. He was dressed in tightly-fitted black leggings and tunic, his forearms wrapped in bandages all the way to halfway up his fingers. Nondescript brown hair was restrained with a wrap of grey cloth that appeared to have been hastily done, for locks and strands of a hairstyle that would not behave stuck out everywhere. The shoes that he wore (looking very much like flat versions of court ladies' slippers, so Roy thought) made what seemed to be no noise whatsoever as he padded over to the monarch's bed.

This was followed by an elegantly performed, elaborate bow that declared his loyalty and request for forgiveness for a great transgression. As he calmed his uneven breathing and opened his eyes, Marth saw that this apparent new bodyguard appeared rather young… too young to be forced to protect him! "Thank you, my friend, but such a declaration is not necessary," he assured the boy as he pulled him up. For a moment he thought he saw a flash of resentment in the youth's eyes, but he convinced himself it was only a trick of the light as it replaced itself with a strange look of absolute devotion.

"Is there anything I may do to compensate for my failure to properly guard you?" the boy asked.

"First, I'd like to know your name… I've never seen you before, and though I appreciate your concern it seems a little odd to have someone I have never met guarding me." The monarch smiled tiredly, slouching as he sat up.

"I was named Apollo the day of my birth… and it would only please me if I could serve you to the moment of my death." Apollo executed another graceful bow.

------

It made Roy seethe… the boy's multiple declarations of utter loyalty, impeccably polite body language and bows felt artificial, in some way or another—as if he was only attempting to get close to the prince for ulterior motives. To add that his face was rather pleasant to look upon, and that his figure was well-shaped (and those leggings actually looked damn good on him, though he would have rather died than to admit such a thing out loud) only made it worse. The knives he threw made him a dangerous presence, especially with his good aim. He had not spoken to this boy personally; he did not know what he was like… the general had a gut-wrenching feeling that Apollo would simply bury a knife in Marth's back once the prince had grown to trust him enough.

The prince's calm voice called him back from his thoughts, though... and from the look in his eyes, perhaps he'd been having the same doubts. "Apollo, I thank you for your oath of loyalty. I would like to speak with my general in private, however, so you are dismissed for the moment. Having seen your skill in stealth, I would ask that you kindly do not listen in—this is not for the ears of other people besides the general and I."

There was that spark of resentment again—but the boy eventually left, and Roy saw to it that he did not simply slip off into a curtain unnoticed. Then, yanking the knife out of Theta's calf, he ignored the wail of pain the man let out and dragged him inside the room before shutting the doors. "Who sent you? Talk… or this thing finds its way into something painful," he hissed at the assassin. Seeing the man shake his head, the general cast aside the bloody knife and pinned the man to the wall. Pointing the tip of the Sword of Seals at Theta's throat, he snarled, "You have about ten seconds to convince me not to carve another mouth onto your neck."

"Roy…" Marth began, meeting the look the younger swordsman shot him with an even gaze,"…you're doing this in a rather crude manner, are you not?"

"What do you expect? He just tried to _kill_ you! How can you possibly expect me to do this with any finesse if I'm only barely able to keep myself from killing him right away?"

"Then I'll do it," the prince snapped in reply. Standing up, he calmly walked over to the knife and picked it up. "You just have to hold him still until I am close enough to take your place."

"Fine," the general muttered.

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Theta's eyes widened in even greater fear as he realized that the redhead who had skewered Delta had really been none other than the general he had presumed dead. "You… you're Roy? General Roy, the youngest commanding officer of the Altean armies in history? But… I thought the first assassin had already killed you!"

The general smirked, no hint of any willingness to forgive in his eyes. "I suppose then your assassin never reported that he lost the antidote to the general he'd just poisoned."

In less than a second, the general and the prince had switched places—the prince now held the assassin immobile, and the general stood by and watched with a wary eye as he cleaned the blood off of his sword.

The monarch's eyes were no kinder than his general's. "Now…" he said, almost carelessly, "Please do tell us what we want to know… you might persuade me to simply kill you instead of what I had planned to do to you." He brought the knife down to Theta's groin, and mimicked a slicing motion, as if removing something. The assassin immediately paled.

"N-no… I'll tell you… I-I w-w-was sent by the Embyrr Faction… t-to k-kill you… I-I—t-they made me, I s-swear! T-they're h-holding my g-girlfriend hostage a-and…" Theta gulped as the knife pressed ever so slightly harder against his family jewels.

"Hmm… as I recall, you were telling your friend that he should have picked a faster way to kill me. Perhaps I owe him for his 'stupidity', as you put it. Do tell the truth… he asked how much they were paying you two for my death."

"I… I a-am t-telling the truth…"

A sword point dug painfully into the thug's side. "Hardly. You were about to tell him how much when I ran in and killed him," Roy spat, his tone disdainful. "Now, what does the Embyrr Faction really want? And tell us about Apollo, while you're at it."

Marth turned his head to look at the general. "Apollo? You believe he is from the Embyrr Faction as well, my general?"

"Why wouldn't he be? He only just showed up today. I've never seen a guard by that name before (I would know, having trained most of them) and he came at just the right time. Not to mention the castle is far too quiet… he must have done something before coming here. I suppose he expected you to be already dead, but when he noticed you were still breathing he had to improvise something."

"It seems you are being overly suspicious, my general. The castle is always quiet from my chambers… or have you forgotten?"

"I have not forgotten, your Highness," the general replied, tersely. "But as I came back to the room it seemed the entire castle was silent as death. I heard no signs of life anywhere."

The sword point dug further into Theta's side. "W-well… I h-heard something about an assassin who w-would c-come in the guise of a g-guard… b-but I-I d-don't know his n-name!" the man babbled, a terrified whine escaping the back of his throat. Satisfied, Marth withdrew—and as soon as he pulled away the knife the thug struck.

With a brutal twist of the monarch's wrist that he was completely unprepared for, the knife was taken and within a second turned against him. "Well, you ladies will have to excuse me," sneered the man, suddenly confident. "I have an appointment to make with a certain Apollo. You were right," he shot a gloating look at the seething general, "Apollo was with us. But his act was perfect, Princy here bought it like a charm!" Theta held the knife's edge to the prince's throat, a cocky smile springing onto his face.

"One false move, redhead, and your prince—or were you lovers? Aww, how sickeningly cute! Well, anyway, little Miss Fairy Princess here will have this lovely little blade in his throat." Roy lowered his sword, watching helplessly as Marth was maneuvered backwards out of the room. A tiny smile lit the corner of his mouth, however, as he saw all the signs of the prince about to lose his temper on the royal's face.

_One…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

"Little Miss Fairy Princess indeed! How DARE YOU?" _THUD_. The general walked out into the corridor where the prince had been dragged and smiled ruefully as the monarch proceeded to make the man's knife-wielding hand completely useless. Theta's screeches of pain were loud enough to bring several of the guards running.

"Take this man down to the dungeons and have him thoroughly interrogated. A healer may treat his cuts, but his hand must remain as it is. Go!" ordered the prince, clearly ruffled by all that had just happened. "And have a few people to remove the other body from this room. That is all."

"Highness, would you like us to send you a healer for that cut?" one of the guards asked in concern. A small gash had been opened in the prince's shoulder from where the knife had nicked him as he'd thrown Theta over his shoulder against the nearest wall.

"No, it is all right… I am in capable hands already… and the general and I need to talk."

* * *

"I didn't know you had it in you, your Highness." Roy grinned cheekily at the prince, having finished bandaging his shoulder. 

"If I did not know better, I would believe that you were mocking me, General." Marth let a smile tug up the corners of his mouth, not knowing where such fond familiarity came from but enjoying it nonetheless. "You have seen me fighting hand-to-hand before, have you not?"

"How do you know better? I didn't think you ever lost your temper. And I doubt that the last assassin would be able to use that hand even if you ordered twenty healers to treat it… you really did a number on him."

"Hmph. The last time I was examined, General, I was human as well. This also happens to be the second murder attempt today... if anything, being called demeaning names and being temporarily held hostage only made it worse."

Roy looked down, feeling somehow responsible for the whole predicament. If he had just stayed a little longer, remembered why Marth couldn't remember him… maybe this wouldn't have happened.

The silence was becoming uncomfortably heavy. Aside from the maids who had knocked and come in two minutes before to clean the blood from the room (and the detail of guards who had come to haul away Delta's carcass), the atmosphere was oppressively still, and the general yearned for either one of them to say something before he went deaf from hearing the rush of blood in his ears.

"… When I said I wanted to talk to you alone, I never meant interrogating that man," Marth admonished gently.

"What would you like to speak to me about then, your Highness?"

Another long pause followed, during which the maids had somehow managed to finish removing all traces of blood from the floor and walls. They walked out and closed the door quietly, leaving the two young men alone.

"I… don't remember what happened, exactly. But I know you from somewhere, and Roy… you were dear to my heart. I apologize for my lapse in memory; I remember exactly what we did… gods, what I would not give for this confusion to disappear so that I knew whether it was only lust or love I was feeling!" The prince paused, wetting his suddenly dry lips with his tongue. "… Please, if you are willing to, would you forgive me? I want to understand what is going on… Would it be impossible to start anew?"

The general looked into the prince's fathomless blue eyes, and back down at his feet. "It wouldn't be impossible at all. You are my prince, how could I not forgive you?" He picked up a small, thin book with a plain cover off the floor and put it down besides him on the bed where they both sat. "No… please forgive me for my impertinence now…" Standing abruptly, he leaned down and claimed the cobalt-haired royal's lips in a quick, chaste kiss. Then he fled, leaving the prince with a hand on his mouth and a surprised look in his eyes.

As he ran from the prince's room for the second time that day, Roy's mind was a tumultuous blend of thoughts, confusion, doubt… but worst of all was the voice shrieking, 'What have you done?'. Yet he could not bring himself to silence the voice, for somewhere inside his heart lived the cold dread that told him that he had indeed royally screwed up.

* * *

A/N: And that's the end of this chapter. I apologize for the wait... I am no proficient writer.However, now that midterms are over and winter break is starting, I have a chance to catch my breath and write more of this, so hopefully we'll see more frequent updates over the next two weeks. Ciao for now! 


	6. His vacant eyes, his unseen tears

Welcome to Chapter 6. For those of you who've come this far with me, thank you all so much!  
Anyway... standard disclaimer applies. And, for this chapter, there is some mutilation and implied rape. **If this is not your cup of tea, please do not read and complain about it**. For those of you who decide you will brave this chapter anyway, thanks, and enjoy!

* * *

Roy had just kissed him—of his own will. But… why? The prince touched a hand to his lips and softly hummed a song he vaguely associated with the general, from what seemed like a very long time ago.

What was this, though? Lying next to where the red-haired swordsman had been sitting was a small book, with a plain cover of rough green-dyed homespun cloth. Its unfamiliar texture reminded him of a young boy who had stumbled into the audience room one winter day, clothed in a green homespun tunic and about ready to collapse. None of the guards had stopped him, for one look from his piercingly blue eyes told of a youth far older than his exterior appearance portrayed—and a determination that would not waver, no matter what trials awaited him. With pointed ears, a sword that looked more like a dagger, and a small winged orb of light (which he later learned was a fairy) flitting about at his side, Marth had not assumed very much about this boy.

"There will come a day when you cannot remember who it is that holds your heart," the boy had said, "but there is always hope. Be careful that you do not betray your heart by attempting to give it to another." Then, before the prince could order that someone bring him warmer garments and perhaps lodge him for the night, he had taken out a little blue ocarina and played a peculiar tune—and had vanished. He had not been seen in Altea since.

Shaking the odd recollection from his mind, Marth picked up the thin book and opened it to the first page. He was immediately greeted by oddly familiar handwriting, and for a moment a smile stole up on his face without his knowledge. It quickly disappeared as he realized what he was reading. The first two lines read, "I was born in the Pharae Principality… but I relinquish my position as a Lord in Pharae and begin my life anew as a commoner, in a place far away—Altea, the land of my heart's desire. My name is Roy, and I pledge my life, my sword, and my heart to the beautiful prince of Altea—whose name sings like angel choirs in my ears. Marth…"

"_I love you Marth_…_"_

"_I need you, Marth…"_

"_Please, Marth…"_

"_I love you, Marth… even though I don't deserve you…"_

"_Marth…"_

Where were all these vague recollections coming from? No matter how he sought his answers within his memory, everything relevant faded into an insubstantial haze as soon as he touched it. All he remembered was a loving voice, pleasantly deep, red hair like dragons' fire, and vibrant sapphire eyes—the eyes that promised him all the world if he should so desire.

---

"And in all the world you shall not find a princess quite like the love you seek," crooned a voice, laughing like church bells.

The prince stood abruptly and whirled around, searching for the person who had spoken. "Who goes there? How dare you enter my chambers without my permission!"

"The gods need no permission from any prince, Marth," chirped the voice cheerfully, in a sing-song manner.

"What do you want with me?" He tried to grab Falchion, but something unseen picked it up and held it a few feet beyond his reach.

"Uh-uh-uh… we don't think so. Behave, prince, or we might just get bored and negate our little deal."

"And what would happen if you were to do that?"

There was no reply—but a scene flashed before his eyes, far more vivid than a nightmare.

-_He remembered—everything! The letter, the advisor who had driven his love from the castle with deceiving words… the deadly snow, the cold… and there, there was his love standing before him. The room was so warm—but what was this? It was getting colder, and colder—and even as his lover undressed, unaware of this sudden change, he could feel it—but could not say a word! Marth cringed in horror as the lips that touched his own turned bitterly icy, like the kiss of a marble statue… and as he opened his eyes Roy's frozen body fell into his arms—silent, unmoving, and pale as death. The prince abandoned his self-control and opened his mouth to scream—_

—and found himself holding air, the room neither hot nor cold. But his heart ached miserably, as if ready to shred upon command…

"We can spare you such pain… but of course, you'll not remember anything of use." Marth could swear that the voice had just snickered.

"… What must I do?" he asked, quietly.

"Oh, you must pick someone to spend the rest of your life with… by the time six months have elapsed, you must have made your choice. And exactly eleven months and twenty-eight days from now, you must make it official. But choose wisely… and one more thing—the one which you seek is a noble of a different land. You will find the one which you seek if you look among those considered common in this place. They shall lead you on a merry chase, but the easiest path is never the right choice… remember that. Good luck, and adieu."

"Wait!" But it was too late. The voice had already faded into nothing, and again the prince was left inside his room alone—with only the ringing echo of the gods' laughter in his ears, and the voice that whispered, "Forget," sweeping his memory away.

_"I don't know why my feet have carried me so far from home… but undoubtedly it has something to do with this feeling I hold burning inside my heart for you."_

Where was this coming from? This was Roy's voice, little doubt about it, but why was this memory surfacing when he could swear that the general had never said such a thing? And yet… that look of shock and betrayal on the younger man's face when he'd confessed having no memory of their intimacy was enough to make him wonder.

---

He had been away from the audience room long enough, however. Slipping the book into a small hidden compartment of his desk, Marth donned his usual regal blue and silver and stepped out into the hallway, Falchion strapped securely to his belt. He would be taking no chances, guards or no guards.

Hardly five feet away from his room, the sudden piercing whistle of a flying blade startled the prince enough to knock him off his feet, and the knife flew harmlessly overhead. Sticking in the wall with a solid _thunk_, it stayed put when the prince tried to tug it out. Grabbing the knife by the hilt and giving it a hard tug, it finally came loose—though it resisted every centimeter. 'A barbed knife!'

"Apollo?"

There was no answer… not that the prince had really been expecting one. As he resumed walking towards the audience room, though, the boy stealthily crept up and threw an arm around his waist. "Yes, your Highness?"

"Apollo, what are you doing? If you would so kindly unhand me…"

"But your Highness… your general touches you casually very often. Why is it so wrong for me to touch you when _he_ has even gone as far as kissing you?"

"What are you referring to? I asked that you leave so that I could speak to him alone. What transpired between us in private is not your business."

"Oh, but it is… I'm sure by now you know that I'm from the Embyrr Faction. If you add that there are no guards within shouting distance, and that I have a speed advantage, you are completely at my mercy, Prince. What will you do?"

Marth sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, calming the knotted coil of rage slowly rising inside him. "And how would you expect me to answer such a question?"

The boy smiled, and whispered something into his ear. At the same time, his free hand slid the point of a needle dripping clear fluid into the crook of the prince's elbow.

* * *

"Where is the prince, General?" one of the advisors barked. Roy met his glare with an even (if a little tired) look.

"He was still in his chambers when I left him, Xavier. I assume that he will arrive shortly—we merely discussed some things that left him in a rather pensive mood."

"Then please explain the note we found tacked carelessly to the throne that stated he shall not be coming to hold audience for the rest of today, General. You were last seen with him, or so you yourself have confessed. What have you done to him?"

Roy's eyes widened. "What? There was a note like that?"

"Yes, and it was rather hard to pull out the knife that held it there. The blade was barbed…"

The general took a breath, and told himself that the anger that flared white-hot inside him could wait until the culprit was found. "Those Embyrr bastards can hardly wait to get rid of him… gods damn them all! Daryl, Lysander, I need you to alert Guard Unit Six that they are needed. I'll brief them on the situation outside of the prince's chambers. The rest of you can do as you wish—I'm going to find the prince." He turned to face Xavier. "And you… find solid evidence before you attempt to accuse me of such insulting things next time. I pledged my sword, my eternal loyalty, and my _life_ to the prince from the first day I met him. I would rather die than hurt him—and I am not the kind of man who goes back on his word." Turning on his heel, he strode out of the audience room and took off at a rapid pace back towards Marth's room.

"Damn you, Apollo…"

* * *

The sixth guard unit was a specially trained squad, handpicked by Roy himself. It consisted of the men and women who were most loyal to the prince, and were to come to his aid should he find himself in danger of the most dire sort. Prince Marth had once good-naturedly joked that he himself could not best them, let alone anyone sent to kill him.

Yet as the score of guards ran down the halls towards their monarch's private chambers they could not shake the odd feeling of dread that perhaps they would not make it in time. One young man decided to do something about it—he broke into a sprint, and the rest of the squad followed suit. There was no telling what could happen to the prince if they were too late, especially not with the hasty manner in which the two advisors had roused them.

* * *

He couldn't move… couldn't resist the hands that led him to the bed, lay him down. He couldn't even shout for help when cold steel cut his garments away, and the flash of brown hair that his eyes caught before they slid shut sent him spiraling into an abyss of despair he did not believe it possible to fall into. The fingers that trailed lightly over his body invoked unwanted reactions from his body, and his revulsion at the unwelcome touch only summoned a delighted chuckle from the boy.

"You shall be the noblest toy I have had yet… and the fairest, in all honesty. Dear, dear prince… what shall we play first?" Marth shuddered involuntarily, feeling the boy's sweat-sticky hands touch him all over, and welcomed the dreamless oblivion that soon swallowed him.

* * *

Roy found himself outside of Marth's room before the guard squad had arrived. The air itself carried the pressure of a feeling of foreboding—and he knew that while he was not too late, if he did not find the prince soon he would be. The area was completely silent, save for his own breathing—he could swear his heartbeat thundered through the hallways.

Entering the prince's room, the general discovered why he had not heard a sound. Marth was tied to the posts of his own bed, arms and legs spread far enough apart that even if he had struggled, it would have done little good—or so it seemed. The blindfold over his eyes and the gag keeping him from uttering a sound could not hide how utterly still he was, and the strips of cloth littering the floor (leaving the prince bereft of any covering) left the thin, ragged cuts all over the prince's body plain to the eyes. Kneeling between his legs and contemplating how to cut his initials into the prince's body was Apollo… his clothing was still on, thankfully, but the barbed knife he held was stained with Marth's blood.

"Ah… General. We meet again… but I'm almost done here. There's only two little things to take care of." Apollo smiled, cruelly, and peeled away the gag. Undoing the blindfold, he revealed Marth's closed eyes… and then he slowly began carving something into the prince's hip. Noticing Roy draw the Sword of Seals, the young assassin stopped and held the knife against the prince's jugular vein. "I wouldn't move if I were you, General. Now, put that sword down before I decide I've had enough fun and cut his Highness' pretty white throat."

Shaking with barely contained rage, the general had no choice but to lay the sword down. "… You've already hurt him… I can never forgive you for that. If you kill him, I'll hunt you and your gods-damned organization down to my dying breath, until every last one of you are unrecognizably dead!"

"Good, good… I like that rage. You're even more fun to play with than he was…" Apollo motioned carelessly towards the prince. He continued carving bloody text into the monarch's body, smiling as the red liquid welled up. "You're very possessive of him, aren't you? I bet I know why… he's quite pretty. Well… don't worry. With one more word, he'll be all yours." He wiped the blood away with a strip of cloth Roy recognized as part of Marth's surcoat.

The general's breath caught in his throat. "No…" Cut in livid, red letters that stood out against the prince's pale skin were the words, "Property of Lord Roy of Pharae." "No… you BASTARD." He reached into a pocket and produced the knife Marth's advisors had previously pulled from the throne. "How did you find out?"

"Uh-uh… drop that, General." Apollo smirked. "I listened to him read your journal aloud, for whatever reason he had. I heard a voice that spoke to him, and I'm not a fool—I put two and two together, unlike your dear foolish prince here. And I know that you recognized me… you just couldn't figure out where you'd seen me. Too late, eh?" He pulled on the upper half of a page's uniform and undid the cloth turban. "Remember me?"

Roy's eyes widened, soon narrowing to furious slits. "You… I knew that you were up to no good from the start!" he hissed. He let the barriers that held his roiling anger at bay fall. In one smooth motion, the knife hissed through the air and caught Apollo in the shoulder. The boy, taken by surprise, dropped the knife he'd been holding in that hand and swore as he realized his arm was no longer of any use.

"Oh, you'll pay quite dearly for that, General." The young assassin smiled cruelly once more, and slipped a different sort of blade between the prince's spread legs before the general could make a move to stop him.

It was perhaps the worst timing for the general to have inadvertently provoked the boy, for by now the prince had shaken off the sleep-inducing effects of the drug he'd been injected with—and let out a piercing cry of pain.

* * *

Hearing Marth scream, the entire sixth guard unit picked up the pace to a nearly inhuman speed.

"Gods, I only pray we're not too late," muttered the squad leader under his breath. The guards that heard him agreed silently, mentally readying themselves for whatever battle lay ahead.

* * *

Losing himself in the sensation of the prince clenching around him, Apollo let his eyes slide shut... and in that fatal moment, he felt a sharp blow against his head. He slipped into unthinking darkness even as the thought crossed his mind to wonder what that had been.

---

Pulling the assassin off of Marth, Roy threw the boy's unconscious body unceremoniously to the floor and set about untying the monarch. When he looked into the prince's eyes, though, he saw nothing… only a deep blue void. "Gods… I've failed you, Marth," he murmured sadly, wrapping the prince's exposed body with a blanket and picking him up bridal-style.

Just then, the squad burst in, and stopped short at the sight of the general carrying the prince, blood soaking through the blanket in some places. "What… what happened to him?" asked a guard, his voice shaky from seeing the prince in such a vulnerable state.

The general said nothing for a moment, only pointing in the direction of the young assassin's still prone body. "… The kid over there did this." _But I can't say that I'm not to blame, either… I left him alone, here…_

Two guards went to collect Apollo… which left eighteen, all with questions in their eyes. There was no time to explain, however, when the assassin sprang up and began resisting the guards as furiously as he possibly could with one functioning arm, and shouted curses and insults when one guard pinned him down. His desperate shrieking only ceased when the other knocked him out again, and his knives were confiscated soon after. As he was tied up and taken away by a small detail of three men, the general smiled tiredly.

The prince had closed his eyes again, during the fiasco, but his fairly steady breathing reassured Roy. "Would you like to accompany us down to the healers' bay?" asked a female guard, not unkindly. "I'm sure you'd like to check on the prince once the healers treat him."

"… I can't… I have something I need to do. Would you take him down there for me?" the general replied, something unreadable in his expression. He handed over the prince's limp body to the guards, and ran—away from the blood-stained bed, away from the marks marring the prince's wrists and ankles, away from the single scream that echoed endlessly in his mind and the vacant eyes that had met his when he'd released Marth's bonds.

_I couldn't protect him… gods, I failed him. I let him get hurt, I left him there alone… I distracted him, I let him fall into this trap, I didn't watch Apollo closely enough… I don't deserve him. I don't deserve him at all…

* * *

_

None of the guards noticed when the prince weakly mouthed something to the young man who no longer held him. Only the gods with their bell-like laughter saw, and for once their merriment visibly ceased—this had become a dangerous game, and one misstep would cost more than love… it would cost the prince his life. And for once they intervened for the sake of the prince, who had almost wholly forgotten his love.

Roy blinked as a window fogged over before him, clearing to show Marth's face. His eyes were still closed, but he could read his lips… _"It's not your fault, love…"  
_There was no one around—and the general let precious minutes slip away as he fell to his knees, the wall before him sole witness to his tears.

* * *

A/N: Well, that's the end of the sixth chapter. As much as I hate to say this, because I enjoy (more or less) writing thisfanfic so much, the story's coming to a close. However, there's at least two more chapters in the works... probably more, but I doubt there will be any more than ten chapters total. Anyhow, thanks for reading everyone! 


	7. Recovery, and plans for retribution

Wow... the seventh chapter. I never imagined that this story would go this far when I first scribbled down the beginning... ah, it brings tears of nostalgia to my eyes! (Haha... kidding, kidding. It's not that old, after all. XD) And it's still going, since the eighth chapter is in the works already.

Anyway, standard disclaimer applies (along with the standard plea to not sue) and one warning: this chapter is unbetaed. That's right, folks... I'd like to send an apology to my awesome beta The Tears of Ages, but I'd rather that she enjoyed her vacation and not have to spend too much time fiddling with my error-ridden drafts. This chapter is just a little shorter than the last one, on another note.

Thanks to all you wonderful people who have read this story, especially those of you who have left all of those lovely reviews!

* * *

Hearing footsteps clattering against the floor, Roy straightened up and bid himself regain his composure. When he saw that it was five guards of the Sixth Unit approaching him, he sagged against the wall in relief. As much as he hated to show weakness before his subordinates, he was only glad that he did not have to endure extensive and perhaps mostly unnecessary questioning. 

"… How is he?" the general asked wearily.

"The prince is faring well… save that his eyes are strange, empty... It is like there is no one in control. He only stares blankly up at the ceiling, blinking when necessary," a guard replied. "Why is it that you will not go and see him?"

"I… I don't deserve to even look at him. I failed him. I couldn't protect him… He must hate me, standing there and letting him suffer like that. Even if only for a moment—I'd rather cut my sword-arm off than let him suffer."

The guards looked at each other, then him.

"Forgive our insubordination, sir, but…" A hefty guard drew back his fist and caught Roy in the face with a vicious hook. The force of the blow snapped his head to the side and smacked him into the wall.

-----

The general rubbed his slowly swelling cheek, where the punch had landed. "What on earth was that for, Caleb? You will face no repercussions this time, but what POSSESSED you?"

"Sir, do you believe that we do not feel any guilt at all over being unable to keep his Highness from harm when we were specifically CHOSEN to be his special force? We were supposed to come to his aid—we were supposed to SAVE him. Instead, we came too late…

"By the time we arrived, you had already taken care of the culprit, and what damage had been done to our prince had been done! There was nothing any of us could do! If we could FLY like a pack of wyverns, maybe we would have made it—but none of us can do that! We're only human, sir… and that's why I hit you. You're not thinking at all." Caleb put his hands on the general's shoulders, his expression kindly. "Sir… I think all of us will agree that Prince Marth loves you too much to hate you for supposedly 'failing' him. He knows you tried."

"He was unconscious when I was there! And all I could do was stand there… because that damned brat would kill him if I made any sudden moves… oh, gods…" Roy gave up the remainder of his now flimsy façade of strength, and collapsed to his knees. "Oh gods…"

"You should go visit him… we know he wants to see you. I think even he knows that… it's only you who's so unwilling to face him, because you're so afraid of that kid breaking your relationship apart. I haven't seen you two together lately, so maybe you've had a little trouble, but… sir, you should have more faith in him. He's not a weak prince, after all." Caleb pulled him back onto his feet and gave him a little push towards the healers' bay.

"Oh yes… Sir, we retrieved your sword for you. You undoubtedly were so distracted that you simply left it in the prince's room." Another guard handed him the Sword of Seals, which he promptly sheathed, giving him a nod of thanks. Caleb watched as his commanding officer took off at a run towards the healers' bay, and smiled. It never really failed to astound him how childlike the general was sometimes, despite his prowess in fighting and battle tactics.

* * *

"Marth…" Roy stood by the side of the bed where the prince lay, held fast in what seemed to be a conscious stupor. Why did this keep happening? First it was that stupid wish amulet and the gods' price, then it was poison, and now it was from… shock? Whatever it was, he wished his love would come back to reality. "Marth… I'm sorry." 

The prince's mouth moved. He closed his eyes and sighed, tiredly, and suddenly got up… and his eyes flashed with otherworldly light. Immediately Roy backed away. "… Oh, hells take it! Why do you keep acting so defensively when we step in? Either you're shouting angrily at us (and yes, we do get tired of that eventually) or you're slumped against a wall sobbing like a small child," Marth's voice chided him.

"… You. Haven't you caused me enough misery already? What now? I want him back! I will TAKE him back… even if it means I have to RIP APART the Embyrr Faction alone, just myself and the Sword of Seals!"

"Such brash words… the little prince would hate it if you charged off so rashly, only to find yourself overwhelmed by numbers. If they decided you were not useful to torture for information, they would likely kill you. And then where would you be? The prince has no heir… and with no memory, it makes him even less likely to go running off into the dark realms of Death to bring you back.

"But we didn't take his body for no reason. You've started to ignore us as a non-corporeal voice, so this was to get your attention. Now that we have it… well, it's really up to you now. What will you do? You do have two choices… you can give up and let the prince marry whatever girl he deems best to bear his heir—or you can keep trying to restore his memory. In any case, if you want revenge you need to muster a force and hunt down the Embyrr Faction. Going off alone will serve no purpose, and even if you manage to take a large number of fighters down with you your death will have been in vain."

Roy stared at the prince's god-controlled form. "Why are you suddenly so concerned about what happens to him? You never seemed to care before!"

"That was because what happened to him before was not an indirect result of our own meddling. If we had simply ignored his prayer that one snowy night, you would have likely succumbed to a combination of the cold and your own exhaustion. That would have broken the prince's heart—and of course, royalty driven mad by loss will often do foolish and likely cruel things, ignoring how their subjects weep and bleed in favor of nursing their own bleeding hearts. We would not step in if that were the case… except, of course, to strike him down were the local temples to have cried their outrage loud enough—or if he should suddenly start destroying our temples."

As the general opened his mouth to retort, the prince raised a hand and silenced him. "We weren't finished yet, young general. Do have some patience.

"As this is not the case, let us explain to you why we stepped in. We began playing this game when you not only screamed defiance against our will in your sleep, but in your waking hours as well. Perhaps we only worsened it when we spoke to the prince… in any case, now that he has been thrown into confusion by this game, we will have to deliver an ultimatum. He will have chosen a girl within six months' time, and in a little less than a year their marriage will take place. It is inevitable—unless, of course, you can make him realize that his heart truly lies with you. Then again, there is always the prince himself… wild card as he is now, he may swing the game either way.

"If you manage to restore his ardor equal to yours, we will concede victory to you… and you will have bested the gods after our many millennia of playing these games. Does this sound simple enough, Roy?"

---

Roy snarled. What did the gods think he was, some immortal creature with greater patience? "I'll have none of your games any more. I will choose a force and go out to destroy the Embyrr army, but we do not know where they hide. Would you be so kind as to inform us?" he snapped, punctuating his last question with a terse hint of sarcasm.

"They camp by the ridge—south-south-east from the village near Sayre's Keep. We trust that you will come sufficiently prepared? They number fewer than a thousand, but all are hardened fighters, won over by ill tales of your prince and his family… and all have spent their lives toiling in one field or another. Do not underestimate their strength, young general."

The gods would betray the rebel faction? "What has angered you so that you would work against them?"

Marth's lips upturned in a disturbingly cruel, haughty expression. Roy shivered seeing it—it just didn't belong there on the monarch's face. "They interrupted a game of lovers that we were very much enjoying. It is truly no fun if the amnesiac lover dies before the one who remembers can remind him or her… If they want to play a game with us, then we shall oblige them—and their loss shall be bitter indeed. We always win the games we play."

He advanced towards the general, until they were close enough to touch, and laid a hand on the red-haired swordsman's swollen cheek. When he withdrew the hand, it was as if no punch had ever landed there… Walking back to the bed, the prince closed his eyes and lay back down, and when they reopened there was no spark of otherworldly light—only the familiar look of lost memory.

"I guess I'll just go now, then…" Roy muttered under his breath. He turned to leave, fully unprepared for the hand that caught his shirt sleeve and gave it a gentle tug.

-------

"You would just leave me like this?" Marth asked softly.

"… You're awake. How are you feeling?" the general quickly answered.

"Not very well… I suppose I simply retreated for a while, but at least that boy could not destroy me, as his mission entailed. It is a rather useful trick—would you like to learn it sometime?" The prince almost laughed at the rather aghast look on his general's face, but then he was seized by the collar of his shirt.

"Do you realize how much that 'useful trick' worried the Sixth Unit and I? Do you know how much I wanted to rip myself apart for letting you down so badly? Do you realize how much control it took not to simply march down to the dungeon and MURDER that little cretin? DO YOU?"

Marth's expression hardened. "Would you rather that I allow myself to truly break, and for good? I was drugged, unaware of where I was or who was with me, and then I have a boy roughly five years younger than you attempting to violate me as thoroughly as he possibly can. What else am I to do but pull my mind somewhere where the full impact of his abuse could not reach? Why do you think I could keep silent after that first cry? I am no stranger to pain, General."

"How can you be so light-hearted about this whole thing? If I had not come to stop him, he could have done worse!"

The prince tugged his collar out of the general's grip. Sitting up, he winced slightly and opted to stand, adjusting his shirt and breeches. Refusing to look at Roy, he replied quietly, "It is better to be light of heart than to let it drag me down into a pit that will impede my ability to rule properly. I will not allow a mere boy, assassin or not, to keep me from doing as I must."

"And what is that? Right now, those damn advisors will just keep pestering you to go marry some girl! You can't—" Roy abruptly clapped his mouth shut, but it was too late. Marth had turned to look at him, something akin to a frown in his eyes.

"I cannot what? Marry a princess, or some other girl I deem worthy to bear me an heir? Mark my words, General—as much as I may favor you, you are in no position to tell me what I may or may not do. And to what purpose will my delay in choosing a wife and gaining an heir serve? It will only make it easier for the rebel faction to accomplish what it desires—the removal of my blood from the throne."

Looking down at the floor, the younger swordsman nodded, in acquiescence. "Very well, your Highness. I only ask permission to take a number of men with me and leave the castle."

"And what is your aim, Roy?"

"… I want to destroy the army that the Embyrr Faction has hidden away, waiting for a signal to come and help overthrow you. I have learned from a rather reliable source that this army does not number more than a thousand, and is camped near a ridge south-south-east from the village near Sayre's Keep. All of the soldiers are familiar with fighting, and have worked in the fields as farmhands or common laborers—their strength, while it can be defeated, is that they do not abide by the common rules of battle or chivalry. They will not hesitate to stab one in the back."

"How many men do you need?"

Roy looked up at the prince, into his eyes, and saw nothing but the aloof bearing that befitted his rank. "Three hundred able fighters who are not unwilling to throw aside the rules of fair play if it means victory."

Three hundred? Only three hundred? This was madness! "Three hundred is still no match for a thousand, General. You will only get yourself and your subordinates killed. Permission _denied_."

"You realize that permission or not I will go anyway?"

"You would defy me?" The prince's eyes momentarily betrayed a spark of anger, and... was that a hint of fear?

"… I have defied gods for your sake before. I will not hesitate to hunt down the rebel faction if it means that you will be safe. I do this for you, your Highness—did you forget? The day I came to you and declared that my loyalty lay with you… when I swore my sword, my life, _and_ my heart to you? Throw me in the dungeon if you must—only do so upon my return. I will come back with all three hundred, and the smoke of the pyres for one thousand slain rebel soldiers rising in the distance." The prince's eyes widened at the slightly crazed look on the general's face. Roy's expression held the promise to carry through with what he claimed he would, and the determination to do so—even at the cost of his own life.

"Roy…"

The general bowed and turned to leave. "We leave at dusk tomorrow. I have much to arrange… I trust that you will not stop me, your Highness? Five of the Sixth unit's best will remain here with you, but the rest are coming with me. We thirst for revenge against those who would try to kill you… and we will have it, if it takes us to the gates of hell." Before the monarch could utter a word, he was gone.

* * *

A/N: Phew. I was quite inspired in this chapter for some reason... Unfortunately, I'm not so sure about the upcoming chapter... anyway, if you would like to throw things at me for making this such a strangely bumpy story, feel free to do so now--in a review, of course. XD Just please don't hit me with anything potentially fatal (ex. swords, knives, axes, all manner of weaponry, hard blunt objects over five pounds in weight, etc.) I'm fairly sure I need to be alive to finish writing this story, y'know? 


	8. Departure, and traitors in their midst

Welcome to chapter 8, everyone!  
Those of you who have stuck around and read this whole darn thing (and it's become the longest fanfic I have ever written--sheevus!) thank you so much for your support! Anyway, on to the fic--oh yes, and I have nothing against anyone named Xavier. It's just a name I pulled out of a hat--I'm serious! I could have named him George instead, but... well, that's a fairly common name. XD Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

Marth stood there for what seemed like hours (though in reality only fifteen minutes passed) gazing through the doorway and trying to quell the ominous feeling that his general would not return unharmed like he claimed. It was odd, he thought, that when Roy had declared this he would stand here like a girl whose husband had just told her he was going off to war. Perhaps that was what many of the soldiers' spouses felt when he was forced to send the soldiers to the front lines… Why was his heart reacting like this now, though? 

But lingering on this would not do. The last time he allowed his thoughts on such matters to consume him, he was—no. He would not think of such things either—there was the matter of a wife and an heir to think of. Yet he did not want to venture back into his room—the place now smelled like blood, the very air itself imparting memories (and far too recent ones, at that) of fear and pain. No, there was a spare change of clothing in his study, and surely darting into his room long enough to retrieve Falchion would not be too daunting a prospect.

-----

He thanked the healers for their service with a rather unusually formal bow (too pensive to notice that he had just performed one which etiquette would deem improper for someone of his rank) and departed for his study, padding along in the strangely comfortable shoes that the healers had given him—his boots being back in his room, along with Falchion. Two Sixth Unit members fell into stride behind him as he walked down the corridor, their presences welcome familiarity after the cold exchange he had just had with the general.

"Are you staying with me when the general departs?" he asked quietly.

The pair nodded. "Your Highness, we will keep you safe from harm—even if it costs us our lives. You have our word as men—" One of the pair coughed. "—Er… you have my word as a man."

"And mine as a woman." The other guard added.

"… I thank you, and assure you that I will not go charging recklessly into life-threatening situations unless I must, to keep you from worrying so." Marth smiled faintly. "When will I meet the other three?"

"We will assemble for you at the general's departure, and work out a patrol schedule. Please keep at least a knife on you at all times, your Highness… it may bring most grievous consequences should you be caught unarmed again. As powerful as Falchion is, it cannot match the speed of a simple, well-crafted dagger..." The female guard presented an elegant dagger to him, hilt-first.

The prince could see that she herself had a similar one strapped to her belt. "Is there some sort of significance behind this dagger?" he asked, accepting the blade.

"It's light, lethally sharp, and can cut cleanly through bone—with or without adrenaline's aid. Some of the women in border villages have reported that they slashed straight through the armor of invading soldiers in panic with these. I believe that if you keep one hidden on you, you will stay safe… there is likely no assassin who will wear armor heavy enough to deflect one of these. We will take care of everything, but in the unlikely case that we fail, it may buy you enough time to save yourself."

"Thank you, Laitha. This may prove to be a most invaluable gift." Marth strapped the dagger to his belt and continued on, his tension easing a little with the weight on his hip.

Laitha smiled. Besides her, Renchald elbowed her quickly. "I'm sure that will help his Highness very much, but we have a job to do… and so does he. Let's just see that he's escorted safely to wherever it is he wishes to go."

"Right."

* * *

Upon arriving at his study, Laitha and Renchald opened the door and looked in—and were struck speechless. 

"Your Highness… we think you'd better come look at this."

The room was in shambles. Clearly, someone had been trying to find something in great haste. Books had been tossed carelessly to the floor, scrolls unrolled, paper scattered all over the place—in short, a mess. The only thing that had really seemed to escape harm was the modestly sized armoire where the prince's clothing had been tucked away, in case official matters kept him until he had no time to return to his bedroom.

Renchald's sharp eyes saw the discrepancy first. "Your Highness… all of the correspondence with the general that you saved is gone. And I think whoever did this was looking for something more, too…" He pointed to the desk, which showed visible signs of abuse.

Thoughtfully, the prince went over and gingerly prodded a pointed knob adorning a drawer. There was a quiet click, and the knob extended to become a switch. He flipped this, and a little drawer popped out from what had appeared to be simply a solid slab of wood. "So they didn't find this…" He pulled out Roy's journal. Replacing it and shutting the drawer, he turned to face the guards. "I trust you will tell no one of what you just saw?"

"You can count on us, your Highness!"

"Good… thank you." Marth sagged wearily into the equally battered chair standing before his desk. "Gods… what could they possibly want with a stack of letters, though?"

Laitha looked around the room. She could have sworn that there was a flicker of movement over in that little alcove the prince insisted on keeping in the room for some reason—and yes, there it was again! Without warning she dashed forward and dove headlong into the alcove in a flying tackle.

"Urk… gerroff me!" a gruff voice protested. The guard emerged triumphant, dragging a somewhat dazed well-dressed man behind her.

Renchald could swear that the room's temperature plummeted when the prince spoke, his mouth pressed into a thin line of anger. "Xavier… What are you doing in here? _Explain yourself_."

The advisor was clearly frightened now. He could barely speak, and when he opened his mouth nothing but a squeak came out.

"Well? I'm waiting." The prince growled.

"I… I-I-I… was just in here to ch-check i-if the d-d-d-documents were all in one piece a-after that as-as-assassin attacked. I-I d-don't know w-what you're t-t-t-talking about…" Xavier gulped as Marth gave him an icy glare.

"Do tell the truth. And since when did my advisors carry such things as lock picks?"

"L-lock p-p-picks? I'm not c-carrying any lock p-picks…"

"My desk was unlocked when we came in, and you don't have the key… I believe I took yours one snowy day when I was writing a letter. Taking a key from another advisor I trust more than you is just as incriminating as possession of lock picks."

"I…"

"If you have the missing letters, please hand them over."

"I don't know what you speak of, dear prince." Xavier's voice took on an air of confidence. "I'm innocent of causing this mess, thank you… and it is your dear general who possesses the lock picks. Or did you give him a key as well? Well, no matter… I saw him rampage through this room, looking for something. I suppose he took those letters you and him sent each other… but I'm glad you've come to your senses and decided that they weren't anything more than just letters. For a while he had you deluded into thinking that you loved him… hmph. Unnatural, really… that boy isn't quite right in the head. I suggest you find a new general…"

-----

Perhaps if the advisor had been less cocky, he would have noticed how cold the prince's eyes had become. A swift uppercut quickly shut the man up. "You will pass no such judgment upon any relationship between myself and the general. You would dare to criticize my choice of military leaders? Then look around—mayhap there is no one in this world who would take him seriously were they to know what he is truly like. But that makes him deadlier—an underestimated man stands, more often than not, victorious.

"And delusion? Love is delusion in itself, at times. People do foolish things for love—a few of my predecessors did so themselves. Perhaps I did love him… it is not unheard of, and certainly not your place to judge unnatural—you have less than a minute to return the letters to me before I decide you are not only to be stripped of your position, but tossed into the dungeon to rot. Do I make myself clear?"

It seemed that there was a flash of resentment in his eyes before the advisor slowly nodded. Reaching into a pouch strapped to his belt, Xavier sullenly handed the letters back. All of the letters were open—old letters.

"Pardon me, your Highness, but surely you remember a certain letter that you never sent to the general? It would be unopened, unlike all of these…"

"Ah… yes, thank you Renchald." Marth gave the advisor a sharp look, and the man handed over the other letter—untouched, thankfully.

-----

All of a sudden, however, Xavier burst into a startling peal of delighted, smug laughter. "You made a certain little Freudian slip, your majesty—I believe I was right after all. You never belonged with that little redhead, certainly not… no, not when you said yourself that you _may_ have loved him before! _Before_! You don't love him anymore, do you? You don't even know if you loved him to begin with! That little harlot of a boy general led you on, all this time, and now you don't even know if you loved him at all! Silly, silly prince… you need me! You need me to straighten you out, and lead you down the right road… after all, I have many years more experience than you do, your Highness! I am years older than you, and I served your father faithfully! It is _I_ who led him down the path to victory, and _I _who was his most trusted advisor—not Lysander, not Robespierre… _me_! You need me, your Highness. You can't possibly strip me of my position, not when I have such a history. No one else can possibly compare to me!"

Laitha growled angrily at the man's triumphantly intoned speech. "You dare insult the general in front of us? The general who trained us, who is one of the men we respect the most?" She fought to keep herself in check. If the man was to be killed, it would be the prince's decision, not hers.

"General Roy's a better man than you'll ever be, you spineless dog!" snarled Renchald. Unlike his female partner, he did not bother with such control. Instinctively, he began sorting mentally through the various weapons he carried upon his person, looking for the right one for this job.

The prince held a hand up to still the guards' hands, unconsciously reaching for weapons. Advancing upon the man sitting on the ground, he stared straight into Xavier's eyes and hissed, "Cease and _desist_, if you value your freedom."

The advisor shut his mouth with a click. "As you wish, your Highness," he answered, in the oiliest tone he could manage.

* * *

"Clap him in irons and take him away," the prince spat. He no longer saw it necessary to rein in his emotions—not when a man who was supposed to serve him saw fit to display such brazen arrogance. "As of this day forth, he is no longer an advisor in this court." As a trio of guards from a different unit hauled away an indignantly screeching Xavier, Marth turned on his heel and strode from his hopelessly cluttered study, having already switched outfits. His usual blue and silver suddenly felt strange and unfamiliar, almost unfriendly… but he ignored the feeling. There was naught that could be done while dwelling on strange things like becoming accustomed to less finely woven fabric.

* * *

It was six minutes to sundown. The sky blazed brilliant oranges and reds as the sun raced down its arcing path in the heavens, almost far too eager to dive below the horizon.

"Sir, platoons Fifteen through Twenty-five are ready to depart!" The soldier saluted, and ran off to join his squad when the general nodded.

Having buckled on his armor, Roy turned to face the ten platoons and raised a hand. Instantly a hush fell over the three hundred soldiers. "I know you all are honorable people, that you would (under normal circumstances) refrain from utilizing such underhanded tactics as striking an opponent when he is down, or killing an enemy soldier through stealthy movement and cleverly set traps… But these are desperate times that call for desperate measures.

"Roughly one thousand rebel soldiers wait for us out there. We cannot afford to take the entire army with us—the others are needed to defend this city, and the prince, should we fail. But I trust that we will not… we will triumph, and return home knowing that we have kept those we love safe and unharmed. Even outnumbered, victory can be ours! Are you with me?" He raised the Sword of Seals.

"YES SIR!" The deafening roar of affirmation sent a flock of blackbirds flying from the eaves in which they sat.

"We march now, to Sayre's Keep!" Leaping astride a grey mare (thinking back to his former faithful steed, the black gelding that had frozen to death due to his own hasty folly), he led the platoons through the streets and soon out the gates of the city. There was much ground to cover, and only so much time they had to reach the Embyrr army…

* * *

Entering the audience room with Falchion and the dagger Laitha had given to him strapped securely to his belt, the prince stopped the oncoming rush of advisors with a cold look. "If you have something to say, you will do so one at a time." 

Renchald went to watch the door, and Laitha stood at a discreet distance from the prince, keeping alert for any potential threats. At the same time, Marth seated himself on the throne.

After much bickering and a few shouted insults (all of which momentarily paused the arguments due to all the advisors stealing a fearful glance at the prince's impassive expression for signs of his displeasure), Robespierre bowed to the prince. "If I may have permission to speak, your Highness…"

"Permission granted. What is it that you wish to say?"

"Your Highness, if this is not too bold of me to say so, there was a young woman who arrived at the castle a mere half-hour before you came to the audience room. She appears to be some form of nobility, from a distant land if the foreign symbols adorning her gown and her pointed ears are any indication."

"What do you mean by this, Robespierre?"

"I believe you may very well gain a powerful ally if you were to win her affection and marry her, your Highness."

There was a brief moment of silence, as the prince mulled it over. "She did not come alone, did she?"

"No, she was accompanied by an older woman she called her nurse…"

"I see… I have doubts that she will be particularly amenable to advances of the romantic variety, but perhaps we may be able to forge an alliance without the added complication of marriage should she prove to be a noble of high enough rank."

"Would you like to meet her, your Highness?"

Marth waved a hand. "That is not necessary, Robespierre. It seems fairly certain that I will encounter her at some point during her stay here."

"Prince Marth! We have another message from the Embyrr Faction!" A page waved a roll of parchment urgently.

"I see… well, let's see it, then." Taking the parchment from the boy, the prince scanned the elegantly penned words. His eyes widened upon reading the words—

"_To our dear prince:_

_Congratulations… you've survived three attempts at your life. Don't you worry your pretty little head, the fourth one's coming up. In any case, I'm sure your precious little general has gone tearing off after our army, has he not? He'll meet a nasty end, that's for sure! We made some special arrangements with some of your people—he and all those who back him will fall under the blades of their own comrades! Isn't it just delightfully diabolical?_

_In any case, we've uprooted ourselves and are now marching towards your castle. And to make things even more fun, you won't see us until we're knocking at your gates! Ta-ta, Marthy… Altea will be mine soon enough!_

_With all due sincerity,_

_Embyrr  
Altea's true Queen_

_P.S. Oh yes, dear prince—I might decide to allow you to keep your life if you are willing to become my new toy. The last time I've had a blue-haired beauty was a few years ago, and he died rather quickly—I suppose I was too rough on him. Don't worry, I'll take good care of you… if you behave, anyway._

"Find Raine, and tell her that we require her presence as soon as is humanly possible," the prince barked. Hastily bowing, the page sprinted off in search of the guard in question. Marth silently cursed--there was much to do to prepare for the impending invasion, and there would be no way in the most godforsaken hell that he would let himself become a plaything.

* * *

A/N: ... Man, I'm starting to hate this Embyrr character already, and she hasn't really even shown up yet. --;; Anyway, tell me what you think--good, bad, mediocre? Reviews are lovely places to tell me that I suck (or the flip-side of that, if you'd prefer)... see you all next chapter! 


	9. Rage, and a desperate bargain

Hi guys, sorry for the long hiatus. Anyway, here's a chapter--and it only goes to prove how long I've been inactive, since I completely forgot the author's note thing. Props to my lovely beta, The Tears of Ages, as usual... she's the one who deals with my awful drafts, so... everybody give her a round of applause! And now to the story.

* * *

Having been escorted to a suite set aside for visiting nobility, Princess Zelda combed out a couple of loose knots in her hair caused by the journey to Altea. It had been the general assumption that the roads would be in better repair than they had been in reality, but barring that discomfort it had really been a pleasant trip. She smiled thoughtfully as she recalled it was also said that the prince who ruled this land was not only unmarried, but rather handsome. "Impa? If I might inquire something of you?"

"Of course, Princess. What is it that you would like to know?" the woman replied.

"Please tell me about this 'Prince Marth' who rules this kingdom…"

* * *

Dinner was plain home fare—nothing fancy, like the rich, savory array that the King of Hyrule preferred. It was decidedly different for the princess, who had only tried what the royal family called "commoners' fare" at the various times she had snuck out of the castle. Unfortunately, when she tried to pay and found that she'd brought far too much ("Three hundred rupees? But we only charge twenty for meals!") her cover was usually blown and more often than not she was escorted back to the castle by whatever guards were nearby. Nevertheless, it was not a displeasing change, merely unusual. When Zelda asked an advisor what they thought of this, he replied, "Prince Marth insists that the kingdom's gold be spent elsewhere than to secure delicacies for his table. We eat what most of the citizens in this city eat, and in the rare occasion that times are lean we must stop the prince from giving his supper away to the first hungry pauper he runs across. It also serves to leave a little extra gold for the military, his most trusted general knowing well where it will do us the most good." 

Curious, she investigated further. "His most trusted general? And who might that be?"

"A young man with flame red hair and strikingly blue eyes… or so the prince himself would phrase it. They were very close for a while, but as of today the general has departed to put down a rebellion brewing in the north. There have been numerous attempts on the prince's life as of late, and though our prince disagreed with this action we must take his general's side. Without taking any sort of action, His Highness may well be dead before spring comes." The advisor looked around suddenly, as if remembering where he was, and murmured quietly, "Please do not speak carelessly of this, Princess. There are unfriendly ears everywhere, and there exists a foe that would only love to see our prince's good name sullied and his life forfeited." Promising to keep her silence, the princess walked away. Inside her mind, the gears began to click and grind, already thinking of possible ways to help keep this prince alive.

Prince Marth seemed a decent man. He did not squander gold on fancy meals that fed only those in the castle, and he tried to keep the kingdom from ever going hungry. From talking to others she knew that he'd set in place a program designed to increase literacy, so that those gifted with a glib tongue and a sense of entrepreneurship could not stoop to deceiving the lower class with any piece of paper that looked vaguely important. It was also widely claimed that he welcomed refugees from far and wide with open arms, so much that once his people had to stop him from handing the castle over to a rather shady-looking group seeking asylum in his land. He had also imposed laws concerning the punishment of those who exploited or violated women and children—they possessed a wide, and at times seemingly sadistic array of punishments for offenders. She had also seen common women wearing fairly discreet, slim daggers—one of these which she had glimpsed the prince wearing for the second in which she had seen him. So far he was still busy, and had not the time to greet her as royals did when others of similar rank came to visit. However, it was clear that the daggers were for a measure of self-defense, and another advisor had proudly claimed that such crimes were nearly nonexistent in Altea.

Yet… with the sword that the prince was well-known for mastering, why did he have to wear the dagger? The princess had received a surprising reply upon the inquiry—silence. She roamed the castle freely, for the prince himself (though he was occupied, and had to send a female guard named Laitha with the message) had welcomed her to do so, and knew nothing until she wandered down to the dungeon one day—more specifically, down to the oubliettes.

The guards there were equally silent, but some for other reasons. Two prisoners wasted away within the confines of the stone cells, neither of them anywhere over twenty-one. One looked to only be fifteen, and the other about twenty… and both wore the most utterly miserable and hate-filled expressions she'd seen anywhere since she'd arrived. (In truth, Roy wore a similar expression, but he was marching to Sayre's Keep and attempting to deal with a guard platoon whose leader was, or so he suspected, turning traitor.)

"Who are they?" Zelda asked a guard whose assigned cell was empty.

"Traitors to the kingdom. They made attempts on the prince's life." His reply was clipped and somewhat strained.

"Why would anyone try to kill the prince? He seems a very good man, from what I've seen." The guard glanced at her noble raiment and decided that it was safe to express his opinion. After all, she didn't seem like the ordinary lost princess wandering down to the dungeons by accident.

"I frankly don't know of any real reason, Your Highness, but they tried anyway. Both failed, thankfully, but one of them caused enough damage that our general blamed himself for the attack." He pointed with his lance at the cell holding the younger prisoner. The princess nodded and went over to talk to the young man, the guard shaking his head as she turned her back on him.

--------------

"What's your name?" the princess asked.

The prisoner stared at her sullenly and refused to speak. Recognizing that she was some form of visiting nobility, he raised a hand and made a rude gesture.

"Oh, come now. The guards back home have taught me much worse," she told him, pasting a smug expression on her face. "You'll have to be much more vulgar to get under my skin."

"Feh… I can get more vulgar, if that's what you want. Why the hell do you want to know my name, girl?" the prisoner replied venomously.

"I can skip right to the chase and demand to know what the hell you did to the prince, and why you did it."

The prisoner's eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed, until his expression became an ugly sneer. "You really want to know what I did to the prince, huh? It's not pretty… no, not nice at all. Are you sure a princess like you would want to know? Hmm?" He smirked. "My name is Apollo." Standing up, the teenager did a mocking bow that Zelda noted with a growing flicker of cold rage was impeccable, despite its clearly disrespectful intent.

"Well then, Apollo… explain yourself." Her voice was icy, suddenly not as neutrally inquisitive as it had been before.

"Well, excuuuuuse me, Princess!" Seeing her stiffen up and a flicker of _something_—maybe magic—rise in the air around her, he shut his mouth. "All right, all right, chill out. Yeah, I can explain if you want. You still won't like it, though.

"Yeah, so I work for the Embyrr Faction. People who don't like Marth, y'know, 'cuz they wanna rule Altea. The pretty-boy doesn't know this, but Embyrr? She's my sister. And she isn't the one who's going to take over Altea, it's my mom. Yeah, but Mom promised me one of Marth's circlets, once I got rid of him and she took over. She just uses Embyrr's name so nobody will know it's her. Nobody knows except me, but she sold Embyrr to some slave traders some years back. Haven't seen her since." He paused to laugh cruelly.

"So I went, and I tried to kill him with poison first. Didn't work, stupid advisor got in the way. Then Mom hired some toughs, and they came in and tried to knock him off. That didn't work either, that stupid general of his rescued him before they could properly kill him. Then I went back again, only I posed as a guard. It almost worked, except… well, damn. I got carried away. So I drugged him, tied him up, carved him up a little. Then that stupid general of his bursts in again, I have fun teasing him, the bastard screws up my arm by throwing one of my own knives into it, and then when I try screwing his precious pretty-boy prince he knocked me the hell out. So here I am. But damn was that prince tight! He probably wasn't getting any since that one night when that precious general of his went out in a blizzard and almost got himself killed."

The princess' eyes hardened. "You're right… I didn't like that at all."

"Ha! Serves you right, girl. Shouldn't go poking around in what isn't your business." Apollo snickered.

"In fact, I'd say I'm quite angry with you," she continued. Placing a hand through the bars of the cell door, she aimed at Apollo and concentrated a fraction of her power. "Din's Fire!" she shouted. An explosion rocked the cell's interior, the smoke clearing to reveal a rather thoroughly charred Apollo, his body covered in a large second-degree burn. "'Serves you right' indeed. Just because I'm a princess does not mean that I cannot do anything with my anger. And the prince does not deserve having such done to him—I know someone who can destroy your faction. If he works with this general I've heard so much about—you don't stand a chance," she snarled.

"My apologies that you had to hear that," mumbled one of the guards as the princess walked by. "He was much more polite before he was thrown down here, although I don't sympathize with him at all."

"You might want to have a healer look at him. It isn't necessary that he be treated, just make sure that I didn't go overboard on him—you don't want him to die before he gets properly executed," she replied curtly. The guard didn't have the courage to tell her that the signs that she'd done something were rather obvious, if the soot on her gloves was any indication.

* * *

"You did not get yourself into any trouble, did you Princess?" Impa asked. The Sheikah could only sigh at the soot all over the princess' glove. "It is usually fairly obvious when you have been using Din's Fire in enclosed spaces. Your garments are covered in soot. What on earth prompted you to use it anyway, if I may be so bold as to ask?" 

"There was an unruly prisoner down in the oubliettes. He told me the nature of his crime in such a manner that I lost my temper and taught him a lesson he won't soon forget."

"Is that so, Princess?" Impa knew better than to pursue the subject any further, though, and did not say any more.

----------

"Impa?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"I would like to meet this Prince Marth soon. I know he is very busy, but if somehow you could help me arrange a meeting…"

"Very well, Princess. As you wish, I will speak with his advisors."

"Thank you, Impa."

* * *

Roy wiped his forehead off with the back of his hand. Clearly, things were not going as according to plan, if the supplies dwindling at a rate far faster than normal were any indication. Then there was a platoon leader who was acting strangely, jumping at shadows and continually swearing that he wasn't up to anything—not that Roy had ever asked. Still, he shouldn't let it panic him. Panicked generals only lost battles, and eventually wars… and this could only be called war. 

"Serge, Jeanne, Belle, Raphael!" he barked, sending the four Sixth Unit members scurrying to his side.

"Yes sir!"

"Serge, you have first watch with Raphael. Take ten soldiers each and tell them to spread out and stay sharp."

"Sir yes sir!" The two men saluted, each already mentally compiling a list of guards.

"Jeanne, Belle… the two of you have second watch. Take ten soldiers each, and do the same—tell them to spread out and stay sharp, especially at the late hour this will be at."

"Sir yes sir!" The female guards exchanged a glance and nodded.

"I will take the third watch myself. The watches will be in four-hour shifts, starting in thirty minutes. Serge, Raphael… you have twenty minutes to collect your men and prepare for your watch. Report back promptly in twenty-five minutes."

"Sir yes sir!"

"You have a question, Raphael?" the general asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Well, sir… with all due respect, what are the extra five minutes for?"

Roy sighed. "Five minutes to use the latrines, meditate, contemplate your possible death—may I remind you that you'd better not die, otherwise I'll find you and kill you again—whatever it takes to complete your preparations for guard duty. Are those five minutes not necessary?"

"No, no sir, not at all. They'll be very useful," the guard replied, a little mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Very well then. Report back to me in twenty-five minutes, with the rest of your watch in tow. I will brief you and then make sure you station yourselves appropriately. Dismissed!" The two male guards saluted sharply and split off from the group to find the soldiers they'd already chosen mentally. The general and the two remaining guards continued on their way to Roy's tent. Stopping just in front of it, he turned and faced the guards. "You two should get some sleep. Wake up in four hours, choose your ten, and go relieve the first watch. I'll come relieve you when third watch starts."

"Sir, yes sir!" The two women saluted and strode off to alert their squads of ten of the assignment.

------------

Roy turned his face away to give the pair a little privacy as they exchanged a sisterly kiss before they separated—or… rather, it had started out sisterly. Now it resembled what he and Marth had snuck out of meetings to do in deserted hallways and the corridor just outside of the prince's chambers. He couldn't help but watch out of the corner of his eye, struck by the familiarity of it.

That had all been from before the blizzard, though. Now there was nothing—no furtively stolen kisses, no playful wrestling on the bed (until one thing led to another and they were no longer wrestling, but exchanging such sweet pleasure that the mere memory was agony to recall), not even the discreet caresses they exchanged in the hallways when they didn't have time to spend alone with each other.

They had nothing now, and Roy felt the rift in his heart widen until all he could feel was cold, clear rage at the circumstances that had torn them apart. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, and he couldn't—no, he could! He would make things right again. _Take that rage and direct it at those who threaten your most beloved, then_, snickered a voice that sounded suspiciously like Xavier had, that one night. _You have the strength and the raw, burning hatred to do that, don't you? I can help you with everything else…_

Something didn't feel right, but the general ignored the gut feeling screaming at him to say no. _That's right… you'll be able to put everything back to how it was. He'll remember, he'll love you again, and you'll never have to be without him ever again. Won't that be just lovely?_

"What do I have to do?" he whispered. Something inside him kicked and screamed and cried to be heard, shouting how something was off, was wrong… that this voice was making empty promises. He squashed it, telling himself that this could be his only chance.

_Will you make this deal with me? I promise I won't ask for much. Think of how much I can give you. And all you have to do is say yes._

Hesitating, Roy looked towards the rest of the camp, and the soldiers that were setting up their tents and talking to their neighbors. He thought for a moment that if he were to just say no, things might turn out better—but how many of those soldiers would he lose? Too many, he thought. 'Marth was right… it would be suicide to think that these numbers could win.' He took a breath.

"… Yes."


	10. Cornered with nowhere to run

Okay, folks. Hi again, sorry for taking so long to update (the muses and I were in disagreement). Kudos go again to my beta The Tears of Ages for going through my error ridden drafts (they were particularly bad this time, especially as I'd done a lot of writing at a rather late hour--sorry!). So... umm.. yes. Here we go. For people who have forgotten, please keep in mind that this is a story containing a good deal of homosexuality. Doesn't float your boat? Well, nobody's forcing you to read it--the door's that way. **points to the back button  
**

Anyway, for the rest of you (and for the loyal readers who've stuck with me this far, let me take these two seconds to thank you so, so much for staying around when these ten chapters have taken so long I think most would have died of boredom) enjoy!

* * *

Belle tested her bowstring, inspecting it for nicks and signs of fraying, and put the bow aside. Picking up her sword, she tested its balance, and then gave it a quick polish—it wasn't really necessary, but it was something to do. Checking her quiver, she nodded to herself—she had enough arrows to fight an army, really. All it ever took was one good shot, and the soldier would go down. Still, it didn't hurt that she'd tipped all of the arrows with armor-piercing heads—and a touch of the same poison that that an assassin had tried to use on the prince. Scowling at the thought, the guard finished the inspection of her gear and hastily snatched up her bow as a twig snapped. 

Hearing the footsteps crunching in the snow, she grabbed an arrow and pulled the bowstring back, aiming at about chest height. The Embyrr scout wouldn't get a chance to see her face before he died, she decided with a scowl. With a silent hiss, she let the arrow fly. It was a good shot, flying straight and true—

--which was promptly caught by a gloved hand she recognized. "Oh no… G-general?"

"It's only me, Belle," came the general's voice. There was something wrong, though—something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Perhaps it had something to do with the growing feeling of uneasiness in the pit of her stomach with his words, despite their calming intent.

"General Roy? Is there something wrong, sir?" she asked, hiding her apprehension by inspecting her swordblade (though she knew that if he were to fight her, she would probably lose).

"Nothing at all, Belle. I've come to relieve you for third watch." Something about his voice was sinister—it didn't fit him at all. What was wrong with him, though? "Nicely shot, by the way… if I hadn't caught the arrow you would have undoubtedly killed me."

He advanced on her, still holding the arrow she'd shot at him by mistake. "General?" she asked, suddenly afraid. Why hadn't he simply cast the arrow aside by now?

"Get some rest, you've earned it." He smiled nastily, and too late she saw what his intent was.

"No, General! What are you doing?" The shout came too late as the arrow's poisoned head plunged into her throat. Belle recognized the voice as her lover's, and silently thanked Jeanne in her thoughts for trying.

With a bloody cough, the guard expired, an expression of shocked betrayal written on her face. Her equipment lay as she'd left it, well maintained and in perfect condition.

---------

Jeanne watched her lover die at the general's hands in shock. The shout ripped from her throat far too late—the arrow had already begun its descent. "BELLE!" she shrieked, abandoning her composure. The man simply looked at her, and dropped the guard's body carelessly. As he walked away, towards one of the other soldiers' posts, she bolted from hers towards Belle's.

"No… no… this can't be happening! Belle…" Removing the arrow from the young woman's throat, Jeanne closed Belle's eyes and cradled her body, overwhelmed by grief. "What has he done? We respected him, we trusted him—how could he do this to you, Belle?"

Her face hardened. "The rest of the Sixth Unit has to know, Belle. I'm sorry we can't bury you properly yet. But they have to know…"

Strapping on all of Belle's weaponry that she could carry, Jeanne picked up Belle's body and carried her bridal style as she headed back to camp. There was so much that had to be done, and all before the general returned …

------

"Raphael! Serge! Wake up!" she hissed urgently.

"Nnn… huh? Jeanne?" Serge sat up in his bedroll, yawning. Raphael seemed to show no signs of waking any time soon. "What's the matter? I thought the general was supposed to take third watch."

"He is. This is what the matter is!" Jeanne's voice rose to a dangerous volume as she stepped into the tent carrying the dead body of her lover.

"Oh hell no… what the hell happened? Nobody catches Belle off guard like that!" Serge elbowed Raphael hard, causing the man to groan and sit up groggily.

"Ow, dammit. The hell was that fo—oh gods. Belle?" He looked up at Jeanne. "She can't be… dead?"

"She is. And it's all the general's fault," the female guard snarled.

_Now_ Raphael was awake. "Wait… hold up. What does the general have to do with this?"

"Raphael. Think about it. No enemy ever catches Belle off guard. She probably had the best instincts in the Sixth Unit, not to mention some of the best reflexes. No enemy could catch her off guard because she'd expect an attack from them. But who would she let her guard down around?"

"… no. You've got to be kidding me… this is a bloody joke, right? Belle's going to wake up in a second and laugh at me, isn't she? The general… the general wouldn't kill one of his own! He chose us, he trained us… we _trusted _him…" Raphael's voice trailed off into a whisper. "He… he just can't have… it has to have been somebody else…"

"Pull yourself together!" SMACK. Jeanne hardly blinked as Serge backhanded his squad mate. "This is no time to go into hysterics. Tell him, Jeanne."

"I saw him kill her. She shot an arrow at him because he surprised her, and he killed her. He wouldn't listen when I shouted for him to stop. He just stabbed her in the throat with the arrow. She… she didn't have a chance." Jeanne's expression turned to one of pure hatred. "Even if he's possessed, even if he's 'not himself'… I'll never forgive him for taking her from me." Straightening up, she barked, "We can't trust the general with the troops. He'll kill them all. Wake up the rest of the Sixth Unit and have them order the platoons to pack up and move out. We have to return to the castle and warn the prince."

-------

Roy stalked through the shadows surrounding the perimeter of the camp. Hearing a sudden increase in the activity within, he had half a mind to walk in and stop it, but decided against doing so. If there were deserters who wanted to leave, he could always track them down later. Distantly, he could hear Jeanne barking orders. It almost made him laugh, although a certain twinge in his heart told him that killing her lover out of spite was a petty and cruel thing to do. What would Marth say if he could see what he'd done?

"Marth doesn't even remember who I am in relation to him anymore!" the redhead snarled at the air. "Why should I care what he thinks?" Something squeezed painfully around his heart, though, and he fell to his knees gasping.

_Tsk, tsk. We made a deal, remember? Wasn't this all for him? You wanted him back, didn't you?_

"…Yes."

_Doesn't seem like it. If you don't care what he thinks, then maybe THAT'S why he doesn't write you those sappy love letters he used to. Maybe that's why he doesn't even remember what he did when he wakes up next to you after screwing you into the floor. I hear he might actually propose to some princess who wandered into the castle a few days back. She's pretty, you know. And female… you never could give him an heir, after all._

"Shut up! What the fuck do you want?" Roy yelled, unsheathing the Sword of Seals and looking around for the source of the voice.

_See, I happened to get wind of this little game your higher powers are playing. You win him back, you win. He marries a girl, they win. You see, it's almost perversely simple. The only problem is finding the key to winning._

"The hell is this 'key to winning,' anyway? I've tried enough!"

_Have you really? Then why doesn't he remember you? Why isn't he declaring some cousin of his heir? Why won't he just make some girl into a concubine for the purpose of procuring an heir? And for the matter, your army is leaving you. Seems after you killed that woman her lover has turned on you. What will you do now, little general?_

"Shut up, dammit! I'll go destroy the Embyrr Faction myself. I don't need an army to do it, either!"

_Brash words, little general. Brave, but undoubtedly quite brash. One thousand to one odds do not bode well for your likelihood of survival._

"Then what do you suggest I do?" Sheathing his sword, Roy leaned his head against the trunk of a tree. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

_I can help you with that. I can give you an army that outnumbers the Embyrr Faction's. I can give you strength and power beyond your wildest dreams. I can give you the sheer skill and speed to kill a hundred men in a minute. I can even give you immortality, at a price._

For a moment all the general could do was gape incredulously. All this was being offered to him? He could win the war alone with some of those things. And yet… what was the catch? "Name your cost."

_A noble at heart, I see. Ready to haggle your way out of a price too high, I assume?_ Roy scowled darkly. _I jest, little general. However, it will not be cheap. This I guarantee._

"Just spit it out already!"

_Impatience will kill you, little general. But very well… I will give you the power to take down a thousand men and live, but you must take a thousand and fourscore lives in order to pay your debt._

"What the hell? So I have to find eighty more people, but still… what kind of price is that?"

_There is a condition, of course. One of these lives must be the leader of the Embyrr Faction, one score must be innocent, and the last will be either your own life or the life of the one you love the most._

"Fuck you," the redhead snarled. "Damn you to hell."

_Does this mean you don't accept?_

"Accept? _Accept_? My arm is being twisted here and you're asking me if I accept. I have no army, they're all deserting! And this is all thanks to your insidious mutterings that drove me to kill her. I didn't mean to kill her… I didn't mean to…" The general sank to his knees, unmindful of the slippery moss under his fingers as they scrabbled across the tree's trunk.

_Tell you what… I can give you all that you need to defeat your chosen enemy. And for a discount, too._

"Tell me, then. What do I have to do?"

_Just give me your body. Do you accept?_

He had no other choice. What could he do? With three hundred men, it was probable suicide. With only himself, it was guaranteed. Still… it gave him a feeling of being unclean, to so much as think about handing over control of his body to a voice he could not even see. It was like being violated, he thought, and still he had no choice. Roy could only pretend he was not about to cry as he thought that if the voice never relinquished his body he would never be able to touch the prince again.

"I… I accept."

"_No, General! What are you doing?"_ Jeanne's voice echoed in his mind, even as the fatal words left his mouth. Wasn't it too late, though? He'd already agreed. Even if she could ever forgive him (and it was not as if she had to, by all means…he _had_ committed a crime that for all intents and purposes could never be forgiven) it wasn't as if she'd actually warn him against such a thing. Then… well, he couldn't think about it anymore. A deathly cold hand clapped itself onto his shoulder, and the very same voice he'd been negotiating with earlier whispered into his ear, "_Thank you for the body."_ Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he saw nothing more.

"Hn. It's been far too long since I had a proper shape, that's for sure."

* * *

"Come in." 

Zelda strode into the study to find the prince signing paperwork and reviewing court cases. "I apologize if this is an inconvenient time, Your Highness—" she began. Marth cut her off with a casually waved hand.

"It's no matter. I'm usually fairly busy, now especially so since I've spent the past week or so cavorting with love, lust and death in more or less unequal parts. It's a rather long story you don't really want to know the details of, I assure you." He signed his name on another form with a flourish, and looked at her. "Sorry… do sit down! There is a chair over there, I believe. And there's no need for the title. Technically speaking we're both the same rank anyway, am I wrong? Just call me Marth."

Remembering his manners, he put his quill down and went to fetch a chair for the princess—who had apparently beaten him to it. "Thank you, Marth. Although I insist that you call me Zelda, in that case."

"Of course, Zelda."

-------

Prince Marth was everything Impa had said he was and more. He was kind, his elocution was perfect, and he never stammered. He always knew what to say, and even if it seemed awkward he would say it and all of a sudden it seemed as if it had been the right thing to say all along. Zelda wondered why none of the princesses she'd become acquainted with over the years had ever so much as thought of trying to net this man—he was certainly a good catch, and Altea was not exactly short on political influence. It was practically a match made in heaven for whoever could get him to propose!

But it was not as if she was only there to marry him (as if he would ever look her way. She sighed at the thought, suddenly depressed). Rather… she had had questions she'd wanted to ask him, though they'd all fled from her head once she'd stepped into the study. The room itself was rather cozy, conducive to both conversation and work.

"Your—Marth. Did… what has been happening? I know what that boy did to you, but… why did he do it?" She tensed as she saw him flinch at the mention of the incident.

"I… was rather foolish. I trusted someone I should not have turned my back on, and he betrayed me. It was not entirely unexpected, I knew he was from the rebel faction. Still… I don't know why I didn't just check for him before I talked to the general…"

"What… what would drive them to make such attempts on your life?"

The prince laughed bitterly, a strange sound from such a fair character. "I don't know. All I know is that whoever is behind this wants my power, wants to rule Altea. They don't know about the days I spend sitting here swamped in paperwork, too busy even to kiss him good night. They don't understand that court audiences take time, that each and every subject who wishes his voice heard must be—I would gladly abdicate my position so that I could live with him quietly, but I cannot for fear that they would misuse the power that comes with it."

"Who is he, the one you mentioned just now?" the princess asked quietly, curious.

"Him? I…" For a moment, Marth seemed mildly dazed. His grip on his quill slackened, and he stared into space as if he saw something that wasn't really there. "I… I don't know. I have no idea why I was just saying that."

"It sounded as if you had been in love." Zelda did not add that the prince's lover seemed to have been a man, figuring that Marth had enough on his plate to begin with.

"I… was in love. Yes."

"_Stop,"_ a single chiming voice declared, echoed by laughter like church bells. Zelda froze, mid-gesture, and suddenly the prince was alone—the princess could not hear or see him, so it seemed, as she stayed stuck where she had stopped.

------

"You have returned," the prince said quietly to the air.

"But of course. How could we not?" replied a voice like the singing of a bell choir.

"What do you wish from me now? I have faced trial after trial, escaping with my life through sheer luck each time. I have nothing left to give you. I only ask that you give him back to me."

"And who would he be?" asked the voice, playfully.

"Please… give him back to me. I don't want to play this game with you anymore. I'm tired of chasing shadows in my memory. Please give him back to me. I know his name, it has scarred itself onto my hip. I know his birthplace, it is written in his journal. I want him back. I want you to stop using him. He's not a toy," the prince replied, the barrier that controlled his emotions shattering. "If you keep playing with him like that, he'll break." He didn't realize that he was weeping until he'd sunk to his knees, overwhelmed by despair. "My heart is already broken, and it has been since he left to fight a war he has no chance of winning on his own. Please give him back to me… I beg of you."

He let his tears soak into the wooden boards of the floor, looking only at the ground. "Please, I beg you."

"Let's see what that princess has to say, then." Suddenly unfrozen, Zelda walked over to where the prince kneeled and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Marth? What… what's wrong?"

He found himself unable to speak, but the look on his face must have been enough. She abruptly held him close, in a hug—one that was more motherly than he'd expected. "It's okay," she said. "It's going to be okay. You've needed to do this for a long time, haven't you?" Wiping away a tear with the pad of her thumb, Zelda smiled sadly at the prince she held. "Just… close your eyes and pretend I'm him, for a moment. I won't kiss you, because you love him… but maybe it will make you feel better, if only for a moment."

And he did. He closed his eyes, and even though the tears kept coming he could envision that the one who held him wasn't Princess Zelda—but a young man, a little younger than he, with messy red hair and beautiful blue eyes. "Roy," he breathed. "Roy… I missed you. I love you… I'm sorry." And in his imagination, Roy smiled at him and replied, "I missed you too, Marth…" He didn't need to say the rest—Marth already knew what it would be.

"I see." The god's voice was quiet, thoughtful. "And here we thought she would have pursued you… she likes you, you know."

The princess looked up. "Yes. I like him, I may even love him… but that means that I wouldn't hurt him, like I would if I forced him away from the one he really loved. My name is Zelda, I hail from Hyrule. I will stand against you if I must, and the trinity of goddesses will stand with me. Give him back to Marth. If his memory has vanished, restore it. If his feelings have been confused, make them clear. Marth doesn't deserve this kind of torment—so give Roy back to him."

"We shall see if there is anything left of Roy to return to the prince, then."

"What?" Marth's eyes snapped open. "Did something happen?"

"Ah, yes… something did, in fact. Love can drive monarchs mad—they will do cruel things to their subjects while nursing their bleeding hearts. But men of lower rank can be driven equally insane—the men that Roy marched off with to fight against the Embyrr Faction have deserted him to come back and warn you of one thing: he has killed one of his own, a guard he'd trained personally. He is no longer himself, and we suspect that he will never be himself again if he is allowed to remain in his current state," the voice replied, neither cheery nor grave.

"… What must I do?" the prince asked, after some hesitation.

"You must bring him to his senses, and exorcise whatever it is that has warped him so. If you cannot—you will have no choice but to kill him."

* * *

A/N: Boom. Ouch, they say it in spades, don't those gods? Anyway, liked it? Hated it? Wanted to rip my guts out because you think I'm either a) a total meanie or b) a total dorkasaurus with no life whatsoever because I've made Marth cry (and/or gay, but I'm wondering why the hell you're still here if you have a problem with that)? Reviews are great places to let all that pent up emotion out. Let me know how you felt. :)  



	11. Be wary, for darkness this way comes

Hey guys, long time no see. Sorry about being so slow to update--I'm not sure exactly what it is, but lately my muses and I have come to disagree with what comes rolling off my pen's nib. In any case... standard disclaimers apply, and... well, this chapter's pretty mild. Nothing except plot devices and more plot devices. Hopefully, though, you'll like it. :D As usual, kudos to my amazing beta The Tears of Ages:D

I'm assuming nobody who doesn't like this kind of stuff has bothered to read this far, so... enjoy!

* * *

He chanted strange words that the land had never before heard, feeling raw power sear his throat and burn his tongue. Even as his mind screamed protest at this pain, his mouth continued to speak, the incantation's speed rising to a fever pitch. He stopped to take a breath, shouting the final words with all the force he could muster. Roy could feel the arcane energy coiling around his body and mind alike, its movement akin to dark serpents, before leaving him and soaking into the ground—racing away in all directions. 

Instantly the snow melted away, the pale green revealed beneath wilting and decaying before his eyes. Soon all that stood within a five meter radius of the swordsman had turned to dry, dead earth, the flora nothing more than dust. Of the animals unlucky enough to be unable to escape the spell, nothing remained save for bones that crumbled to dust with just the faintest touch of wind. _What horror have I unleashed upon this land?_

"Horror? Dear host, I'm insulted. I am merely a humble King of Evil, and really… it's a miracle your land has stayed intact so long. There are no barriers whatsoever to keep beings such as myself from entering this realm—unlike Hyrule, where I keep being banished to the dark realm by that blasted Hylian…"

Roy's face scowled darkly, his eyes promising much pain and suffering to come—an expression so unsuited to him that if the gods were to have allowed Marth to scry him now, the prince would have been shocked.

_Who are you? Why do you call yourself a 'King of Evil'?"_

"You are an annoying host indeed. Most minds remain quiet and submissive once possessed, but not yours apparently." Roy's voice laughed maliciously. "You should be fun to break—how about after we kill that pitiful army you've been marching against I go back and kill your lover before your very eyes? I'm sure the look of betrayal on his face will be delicious."

_Don't you DARE touch him. Not to mention you haven't answered my question as much as dancing around it. Tell me already!_

"Fine. My name is Ganondorf—you may refer to me as 'Master'."

_Bastard!_

"You will regret your impertinence, boy."

Roy sank to his knees in the center of the barren clearing, suddenly having regained control of his body. Desiccated hands tore up out of the earth and clutched at him, and as he realized that they looked as if they had been formerly human he shouted and fought against them. But there were suddenly too many, and as some of the hands' owners climbed out of the earth he let out a terrified cry of surprise, before they began to drag him under.

Then he felt his control yanked away again. "Still, it would be a pity to kill my first host body in years so quickly… I believe I'd be better off keeping you alive." The hands pulled themselves up out of the earth halfway, and Ganondorf smiled. "These, boy, are the ReDeads. They won't stay for very long, the sun will soon rise—but continue to defy me and I believe I shall simply abandon you and let the ReDeads suck the life from you." He laughed, and Roy felt _his_ voice change—just a touch more guttural, dark as a moonless night. He could do nothing else—he let his consciousness slip away from him and was silent.

----------------------------

"Princess! I have urgent news."

The knock on Marth's study door was hasty, Impa's voice worried. Numbly, the prince stood and opened the door.

"Princess—oh! Your Highness, I apologize. I remember that the princess would be in your study…" Impa bowed, only to be stopped as he pulled her back upright and shook his head. It was then that she realized that he had tear tracks running down his face, and that Zelda's expression suggested that she had heard something painful. "Your Highness, I must speak to the princess, I have dire news…"

Marth nodded. "Then if I may, I would like to hear it as well. It appears that my general has been possessed, and it may be that what you have to say has some pertinence to this."

The Sheikah raised a brow at this, but nodded her assent and entered the room. "Princess... did you not feel that familiar dark energy? It is the same as it was in Hyrule, but there are no sages to stop him here… you must call him."

Mechanically, the princess agreed. "Yes… I must… no!" Her eyes flew open as she realized what it was her nurse was saying. "No! We cannot do that—he has already lost seven years of his life fighting him, I will not allow him to suffer like that again!"

"Princess, perhaps you do not know who I speak of. Not the young hero, but your other… here, he has his own form. I do not know why, but that perhaps may be because a different kind of energy flows through the land here. Call him, and mayhap there will be hope."

"Why, Impa? I thought he was naught more than a false form you allowed me to take…"

The Sheikah's face hardened. "Princess, for once please heed my words. The one we knew as 'Sheik' was never a false form—he was someone I knew once, long ago. His true name has been lost, though, and so you know him as thus. I implore you… call him."

The prince stood by and watched this exchange, puzzled. Who was this source of dark energy that they could feel, though he could not? A quiet voice like the delicate chiming of a tiny bell whispered, _"He is the one who has taken your beloved captive_," before falling silent. Feeling a chill run up his spine, he shivered and stepped forward. "Impa… may I ask you something?"

The Sheikah looked him over again, something like calculation in her eyes, and at long last replied, "Please feel free, your Highness."

"Will… will this one named 'Sheik'… will his presence help me save Roy?" Zelda noticed the prince's sudden clumsiness with his words and frowned. He hadn't been like that when she had spoken with him… and yet perhaps it had been because he wasn't as afraid as he was now.

Impa's reply was cautious, her eyes guarded so that he could not read them. "I do not know for sure, your Highness. He may, and he may not."

"… Thank you." Clearly unsatisfied with the answer he had received, Marth moved to leave the study. The hand that caught his arm stopped him. "Zelda?"

"I will call him… I would request that you do not leave yet, though, for how else will he know your face?" The princess smiled reassuringly at him. Releasing his arm, she stepped back and arranged her hands in a prayer position.

------

The chill he had felt when the voice had identified their enemies as one and the same was nothing compared to this feeling. Marth could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up, something like a jolt of lightning running through his blood—the power that rolled off of the princess' tongue as she invoked power he'd never seen before felt entirely otherworldly. Was this the influence of the three goddesses Zelda had spoken of? A ball of light collected before her, growing larger and larger with each word. He couldn't understand it at all, but as the sphere grew a shape became more clearly defined within its confines.

It was the figure of a young man, curled into a fetal position. Zelda had called him a false form, and yet—the prince was more inclined to believe that Impa had spoken the truth. Especially as he opened his eyes—how could a mere shade have such a piercing red gaze?

Finishing the summon, Zelda unclasped her hands and looked away. The young man uncurled and stood up from where he'd been lying on the floor, his height roughly equal to the princess'.

"Sheik." The princess looked down, not meeting the man's eyes.

"Princess. It is good to see you well." Sheik's tone was neutral, his eyes dulling slightly as he looked around, seeming to search for someone. "Is… Is Link not here with us?"

Zelda shook her head. "He has not received word of this. We are not in Hyrule, Sheik."

"So I can see." The Sheikah shook his head, pausing as he noticed Marth. "Whose realm do we trespass upon, then? This does not seem to be Labrynna or Holodrum…"

-----

"You trespass on no one's realm. Princess Zelda is welcome here, as are you." The prince bowed, but in the flash that the Sheikah saw of his face Sheik could tell that something was bothering him. No carefree man had eyes like that… "My name is Marth. I rule this kingdom, called Altea, and you may stay in the castle as a guest for as long as you would like." When the prince looked up again, Sheik's earlier suspicions were confirmed. Something was definitely bothering him—it was written in the slightly empty quality of his eyes, and the slight frown turning down the corner of his mouth.

Sheik nodded. "You are very kind, your Highness. Pray tell, though… what bothers you so that your eyes seem as if you yourself do not walk among the living?"

The prince flinched almost imperceptibly, having enough self-control to quash part of his reaction. Looking down, he murmured something that no one else could hear.

"Marth?" Zelda moved towards him, concerned. He seemed completely zoned out, so she waved a hand in front of his face. "Marth? Are you all right?"

"I… I'm sorry… I'm just tired—" Without warning his eyes slid shut and he pitched forward. Racing forward, Sheik caught him before he hit the ground.

Zelda bit back a cry. True, it was likely that he'd been fairly deprived of sleep, from all that she had heard happened, but it didn't seem right that he would just fall unconscious. Unless… "Impa, can you see what ails him?"

-----

Impa checked the prince over for injury of any sort. Finding none, she frowned—what little she had seen of him had suggested that aside from the stress he appeared to be suffering he was perfectly healthy. What could it be—no!

She yanked her hand back as jagged dark crystal slowly grew around the prince's unconscious form, spreading from each bit of him that was covered. "We have to leave this place now!" Taking Zelda's hand, she pulled the princess away from Marth's body. Sheik followed, silent as he ran alongside Impa, who shouted a warning to the guards posted outside the study as she ran.

Regaining the balance that had been temporarily jeopardized when her nurse had suddenly tugged her to her feet, Zelda hitched up her skirts enough to run unhindered. Around the three, the people were making hasty last preparations before leaving through the various exits of the castle in a surprisingly orderly manner. She did not see the guards that Marth had pointed out to her as his most trusted among them—in fact, none of the soldiers seemed to be making any move to leave.

"Do you feel it, Princess?" Sheik asked.

"Feel what—goddesses!" And suddenly she did feel it, the arcane energy smacking of darkness pulsing from the direction of the study where they'd left the prince. "What… what in Nayru's name is this?"

---------------------------------

A young woman of about sixteen adjusted her almost scandalously revealing dress and made sure her dagger was strapped comfortably to her thigh. Carrying a golden chalice filled with wine in both hands, she practiced her best 'charming smile' in the red liquid.

She was going to kill him, and then Mother would take her back and make her Crown Princess—second only to the Queen, of course. If the poison didn't do him in first, the dagger would take care of it… and of course he would be too far gone by that point to resist. The Darktouch should have worked already, she still couldn't understand why the prince (or his advisor, or that general of his for the matter) wasn't already dead. He'd touched it, he'd gotten it all over his fingers, he'd even let it soak into his fingertips. He should have been dead already. Why wasn't he dead?

It wasn't until too late that she realized she'd spoken this aloud. A guard turned and looked at her, deciding after a moment that she wasn't anyone who was supposed to be in the castle. "Hey, you!" the guard barked. "What are you doing in here?"

Taking one look at the guard, and the others that the first had summoned with a shrill whistle, she threw the contents of the chalice at the guards and ran. She didn't register the darkness that covered the prone bodies of the guards, encasing them inside large crystals that then moved to line the hallway. Nor did she notice that the darkness then crept up on her, until it had snared her ankle and caused her to fall.

"What the… no… NO!"

The crystals bobbed gently up and down where they floated, like glass bubbles on the ocean's tide.

-----

The castle stood silent, its bright colors muted by the layer of pitch-dark crystal that covered everything with beautiful, deadly points. Inside the prince's chamber, it seemed a veritable mine of the corrupted gemstones. Trapped within a particularly large crystal, Prince Marth lay curled up in a fetal position, eyes closed. Pale as death, it seemed as if the reaper himself had come and visited itself upon him—and yet a pendant hanging on a slender chain around his neck gleamed, as if to say otherwise. It was a tiny, intricate masterpiece of silver and glass, appearing as if a true forget-me-not in full bloom had been miniaturized and sealed within. The flower's image glittered and shone, and somewhere elsewhere its counterpart pushed against its wearer's chest and shone like a beacon—brilliant, pure light that made the self-proclaimed King of Evil grimace and his unholy underlings shriek.

_Come find me, Roy. I need you now more than ever._

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A/N: And that's that. End of chapter eleven! Anyway, loved it? Hated it? There's that lovely little thing called the review button, great for throwing virtual tomatoes at authors. Ahahaha. Hopefully you guys won't actually do that, but I kinda have to wonder whether my writing is really up to par to avoid having such a thing happen. Good constructive criticism will be worshipped, as will reviewers, as the rates of reviews have sort of just dwindled down to... well... yeah.See you next time! 


	12. Spoken softly, and yet so very loud

Hi guys! I know, this one came out a little faster than before, but that's because I'm starting NaNo tomorrow and probably won't be updating much for a while. Sorry! (not that my updates were all that frequent to begin with, but that's besides the point) In any case... we have yaoi in this chapter. All right, it's toned down yaoi. Hardly really fits the yaoi description at all, actually, it's very light, not particularly graphic. So this shouldn't make too many of you run away screaming. Although... dude. If you don't like this stuff, and you've read this far... I pity you and point you towards that logo in the upper-left-hand corner, which will promptly take you back to this site's home screen and away from this monstrous fanfic. That's a much more efficient use of energy than composing a lengthy flame, yes?

All right. All standard disclaimers apply, and many, many kudos to my lovely beta extraordinaire The Tears of Ages. For those of you still here (and p.s. ghost readers, I would love to know who you are so I can decide whether you're analyzing my writing for blackmail purposes or are actually entertained by this) enjoy!

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The pendant floated upwards a little, straining against the chain—as if seeking to reach something. When it flared bright as the shining sun, Ganondorf grimaced and gritted his teeth—it was not intolerable, but it was rather irritating. The ReDeads, though, shrieked and dissipated into smoke—with a scowl he decided he would have to remake them later. Perhaps when the accursed necklace this body wore stopped shining—he couldn't take it off, for it burned his fingers when he tried. One might even call it a miniature sun—and then he heard it. 

_"Come find me, Roy. I need you now more than ever."_

Ah. So this was the young man for whom his current host had thrown away even his own freedom. "I doubt you shall be helping him any time soon, though," he told the boy calmly, amusement dark in his voice. The boy—Roy, was it?—cursed him from the confines of his own mind, only prompting further laughter. After all, it was funny—this was one battle that the general couldn't win. And he was so young… just how many battles could the boy have possibly fought, let alone won? Pitiful, really, that he was Altea's commanding general. "Your prince might have done better to choose a more experienced general," the warlock commented, offhandedly. "Most worth the fingernails on His Highness' fingers would know better than to give themselves over to someone who at best is not their ally and at worst is their enemy."

The general was silent, refusing to respond to Ganondorf's last barb. Almost too silent, really… and there it was, that niggling ache in his host's head that signified his host was trying to take back control. Squashing the attempt as easily as trampling a daisy, Roy was banished to his corner and the King of Evil was left alone to scheme. There was no Triforce for the taking here, but… perhaps there was something else, some other dark power he could tap. He could feel it, pulsing faintly in the direction of the capitol city—and there was something else, unsettlingly familiar points of light almost imperceptible amidst the waves of darkness.

"Them," he snarled. Before he knew it, the boy general's sword was in his hands and transformed into the long broadsword he preferred. Swinging it in a broad arc, he shouted arcane words, and tendrils of dark energy erupted from the earth and raced away in all directions before burrowing into the ground. Each tendril cut a wide swathe of further ruin and desolation, until there was nothing but wasteland for nearly a mile. Bringing the sword to rest, he smiled grimly. "Let them deal with that… I have a force to destroy." Summoning a vortex, he stepped into it and vanished.

_My prince… I would come to you if I could, but I too find myself in dire straits._

A single white petal from a winter-blooming flower that had somehow escaped being ravaged by dark magic came to rest on a print that the general's boots had left on the dried earth.

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And what of the prince's army, who knew only that their beloved general could no longer be trusted and nothing of what had befallen their young sovereign?

Serge and Raphael marched wearily behind Jeanne, whose eyes were bright with a mixture of tired energy and grief. She was alone at the vanguard of the armed force, her former partner's horse carrying the young woman's body near the rear.

They had encountered no rebel forces, and had been forced to participate in no skirmishes. Some of the greener soldiers were itching for battle, and yet each time they talked of longing for it any more experienced in combat promptly cuffed them upside the head for yearning for such a thing. Indeed, they all remembered—having trained under the young general at some point or another—that one of Roy's more well known sayings was, "Battles may bring one glory, perhaps—survival, though, is the prerequisite, and if there never comes a time of peace there will never come a time when you may simply just sit back and relish the glory you've won. And then you must think about all the things you must leave behind when you step onto the battlefield. Your family, your friends, your lover…"

It was always at that point that he got a sort of sad smile on his face, and then promptly reprimanded, "That's why you fight your hardest when on the battlefield. If you find yourself overcome and know that it is inevitable you leave this world, you fight to your last breath. When you know you are winning, you keep on going until you know the battle is won. Either way, you will know you did your best to protect those you love. Sometimes that's all that really matters."

-----

"Company, halt!" Jeanne barked out. "Scouts A, D, F, K—spread out, search for traps and enemy soldiers, and report back promptly if you find anything. Sweep the standard area, and send an all-clear signal if we can camp here safely." Once the appointed Pegasus knights had taken off, she inspected the group she appeared to now have charge of. Seeing some of the new recruits relax a little, the corner of her mouth twitched up slightly. "Did I say you could relax, soldiers?"

"No, ma'am!" the company promptly responded. Serge hid a smile behind a gloved hand, while Raphael couldn't really help but let his snicker escape. From a ways back, Caleb called out, "But you didn't say we couldn't, either, ma'am!" earning a few chuckles.

"Then stay sharp, don't let your guard down! Your mama wouldn't want to hear that her kid got skewered by a rebel lance just because they weren't paying attention!" She paused and looked Caleb in the eye. "As for you, bucko, you can set up the Sixth Unit tents alone. You've got half an hour after the scouts report an all-clear."

"Awww, Jeanne!" the Sixth Unit member teased. "You're such a slavedriver!"

"That's 'Ma'am' to you, Caleb!" Jeanne couldn't help but smile, though. The banter helped ease the weight of the grief, and even though a part of her mind insisted that it wasn't right she be able to smile so easily after Belle's death she ignored the little voice. After all, her rational side argued, would it really do Belle's memory any credit to simply torture herself forever?

-----

The Pegasus knights reported nothing amiss, and so Jeanne joined Caleb in setting up tents. It wasn't until a full ten minutes after she'd begun helping that he questioned what she was doing.

"I thought you assigned me tent duty alone, Jeanne." His tone was jovial, and he grinned good-naturedly to show that he was only joking.

"We need all the man-power we have. No sense in wearing one soldier to death to do something as trivial as setting up tents." She elbowed him playfully when he put on an expression of mock astonishment.

"… What happened to the general, Jeanne?" Caleb suddenly sobered, though his hands never stopped moving. "I… I know you saw him last. Belle's dead, that's proof enough for me that things went wrong, but… what happened? He was a good kid, he… he just wouldn't do something like that! I... I really don't understand."

Jeanne smiled wryly at the man calling their General Roy a kid, but quickly sobered. "You sound old, to be calling him a kid… but to tell the truth I don't know what happened either. All I know is that he was acting a little oddly after he assigned the watches, and… when our watch was almost up he surprised her. She didn't think anyone but the enemy would be skulking around in the bushes like that, so when it was the general she was absolutely appalled that she'd fired an arrow at him… and then he killed her."

Caleb stood up, having finished hammering in a tent stake, and tugged idly on his eartails, as if to prove a point. The female guard could see a few strands of grey among the fairly well-groomed masses of black. "Gods, I _feel_ old Jeanne. When I hold back on my punches… well, it'd be a disgrace to call them punches anymore. I was planning to see if I could retire in a couple years. For the matter, when I gave the general a taste of my right hook for being an idiot, I bet he hardly felt it. And I don't think I held back that much, either…"

She cut him off. "Wait… you _punched _him? What the hell?"

"It was after that nasty incident with the pint-sized rapist who I hear threw knives like nobody's business. When the general went off somewhere to beat himself up about not being able to prevent anything happening to the prince, well… we went after him once Prince Marth had been properly delivered to the healers' bay. Poor kid, he'd been crying. I guess he thought nobody would notice.

"But in any case… yeah. I punched the general because he was harping on about how he wasn't worth the spit on a soldier's boots and how he didn't deserve to see the prince. I wonder if love somehow has an ability to turn minds to mush?"

"You're rather pitiless, aren't you Caleb?" Jeanne smiled faintly, somewhat humorlessly. "You might be able to say that. I hadn't even thought about why the general would kill one of his own, only that he'd killed her and that I'd never forgive him for it."

Caleb shook his head. "I think in your case the rage you've felt is probably one of the only logical reactions. The other would be to break down completely and sob until one is completely drained of energy, but you don't seem the type. Belle was a…" he paused "somewhat insane girl… but we'll miss her. All of us, but it seems you especially."

Jeanne raised a brow. "Insane?"

"What can I say? She was good with everything—archery, swordplay, fighting with a lance, with an axe—heck, I wouldn't have been surprised if she picked up a little magic in the process. Quite scary if you were on the wrong side, to tell the truth. And she liked training a little too much that I mentally dubbed her 'the insane one' and left it as that." Caleb grinned cheekily. "Oh, and you've gotten me monologuing. I guess this is the impromptu funeral, then… We'll have a proper one when we get back." He made a shooing motion. "Go on, you've got other things to deal with. I spy two recruits who probably want to talk to you about some dispute—and I've got the tents under control."

As she walked away, the man added, "And I've always dubbed you the Second Hot-head—second only to our dear general!" Jeanne mock-scowled at him and went to see how things were going with the rest of the camp.

-------------------------

_The first thing he felt was the darkness. He opened his eyes and sat up, and found himself chained to the floor. The next thing he realized was that his normal blue and silver garb was gone—it had been replaced by a pair of rather scandalously tiny underthings that would have made Roy blush (if only he'd been here to see this), and a collar. The chains ran down from the shackles on his wrists and ankles and from where one had been attached to the collar, and as he tugged at them experimentally they chafed._

_But the darkness pressed in all around him. Except for a weird, almost stomach-churning ambient light that radiated weakly from his person and from the chains, there was nothing but the dark in every direction—and then a female figure that almost resembled a column of melting wax floated towards him. The exact color of Roy's skin, it even seemed to have some of his scars and marks._

_This figure too radiated a sort of ambient light… but it was even weaker, if possible, than his own. In addition, shadows played over it in gut-twisting patterns that he could not look at for very long before the bile rose in his throat and he had to suppress the urge to throw up. "What… what are you?" he croaked._

_Immediately the melting-candle-woman (what else could he call it?) slashed at him viciously with a length of her melting-wax material that she'd suddenly separated from the rest of her body. "Speak only when you're spoken to, _mortal_," the thing snarled, smiling nastily as he muffled a yelp and shifted to the side just in time to avoid being struck. "I am the Night Mare's sister. I sense the hearts that hunger for your death, and I have come to fulfill that request. Undoubtedly I will be able to gorge myself upon their hearts soon—they will be delicious, so full of vindictiveness and hate they are—but for now I shall have to settle with you." It—no, she—slashed the melting-wax-whip at him again, and a freshly made cut on his face bled sluggishly. "I have no name—not that you may address me, _mortal _But you know me as the stuff of bad dreams—there is a little of me in everything that you fear that most, and for everyone it is a little different. Not that I can bring myself to care—how could I? There is no need."_

_Not caring that it would likely get him whipped again, he tugged at his chains and forced himself to look at her. "Then why do you have me chained like this? Why dress me like a love-slave when my only purpose to you is to die and thus secure you a rather sickening meal?"_

_The melting-wax-woman did not crack her whip, did not simply kill him at that moment. Instead, she laughed. "Because, dear mortal, you are to entertain me. The gods cannot save you where you are here—this is old magic, boy. Old magic obeys no one but beings of old magic—I was here long before any of those pansy chime-tinkling gods and goddesses. My sister and I dreamed up the gods in our own nightmares. And… it was what one heart in particular wanted the most from you. For you to be her pretty blue-haired love-slave, once she broke you properly in any case. I wonder… did you tire of women who lust after your body and your pretty face? Is that why you choose instead to bring men to your bed?"_

_"I was never much inclined to like women in that way from the very beginning," he replied tersely. "And I do not usually partake of casual affairs. I love him, and if it were not for you I would be out there trying to find him!"_

_"To do what?" the melting-wax-woman asked. "To kill him? To try to exorcise what has him possessed only to have him kill you? To die together with him because you cannot live without him? Your choices are limited, poor foolish mortal." She yawned, or made some gesture that appeared to be the equivalent of a yawn. "You seem such a hopelessly romantic fool that I think I'll just indulge you for a little while. Maybe it will entertain me more than just hurting you will." She didn't seem to notice how he flinched at the words, so carelessly flung at him like a pail full of cold water._

_Snapping melting-wax fingers, a figure slowly materialized—a young man, in a white, almost-sheer robe. Then the prince recognized the messy red hair, and the blue and gold headband… and then the young man opened his eyes, and the clear blue eyes he knew so well stared back at him. They were cold, though… empty. There was no soul behind his eyes, Marth realized, and the momentary surprise was replaced by something quite akin to… despair? It was less despair and more a sort of hopeless indifference, now that he thought about it._

_"Well, whether you think it's your lover or not, there's really only one thing that's going to happen now," the melting-wax-woman told him, and the false Roy removed his robe and pushed the prince onto his back. Feeling nimble fingers callused exactly like the real general's undo the strings of his one article of clothing, Marth closed his eyes and tried to pretend that it really was Roy who was nipping him here and there, laving sensitive nipples with his tongue and kissing him sweetly until he was lightheaded with pleasant sensation. With the fake knowing where to caress and rub and squeeze (and oh gods, he appeared to have no gag reflex) the prince soon lost himself in the heat of the moment._

_Wrapping his arms around the redhead, he moaned softly and arched his back. "Ahh… Roy!" If the fake took any notice that the prince's eyes had been closed almost the entire time, he did not deign to say anything, merely tightening his grip slightly on the cobalt-haired swordsman's hips in order to thrust deeper._

_----------_

_As the prince fell asleep curled up on the darkness that served as the floor of the place, the man who had taken him gazed down at him in a mixture of longing and pity. Draping his robe over Marth's sleeping form like a blanket, he glared at the melting-wax-woman._

_"Don't complain. You liked it, didn't you?"_

_The false Roy's eyes flickered with something unidentifiable for a moment, before the man turned to look back at the prince. "… You have a talent for destroying what's beautiful, Dark Mother."_

_"What was that, boy? Was that just an ungrateful statement out of your mouth? Don't forget—I created you, I can just as easily destroy you." The melting-wax-woman seemed irritated, now that her new toy was unconscious._

_ "He's beautiful, Dark Mother. If you keep him here you'll destroy him. He's too beautiful to destroy, and even you should know that for all the time you've spent blind and wandering in the wake of your siblings." Taking the tub of hot water and the towels that the melting-wax-woman conjured for him, the fake cleaned himself off. About to start on Marth, he decided against it… no sense in waking him. Maybe the prince would dream of a better place than this, he thought. Gently washing the blood off of the prince's face with a fresh towel, he sighed as the young man stirred a little._

_"Mm…" Seeing that the prince had not woken, the false Roy planted a light kiss on his cheek, taking care to avoid the cut the melting-wax-woman had given him._

_"Sweet dreams, Marth." Sitting down a little distance from where the prince slept, he drew his knees close to him and too fell asleep using his arms propped on his knees as a pillow._

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A/N: And that, friends, is the end of chapter 12. I may have to extend the story again, although we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Loved it, hated it, wanted to chuck something rotten and somewhat putrid-smelling at me because you think it's crap? (Please don't.) The review button is where it always is. Constructive criticism is always welcome. Oh, and if you feel that this thing is getting too long and you would rather me just write a sequel to wrap up the loose ends, please tell me. Otherwise this is going to probably just keep extending until I can finally say, "THERE! That's where the epilogue fits! THE END!" and we all can sigh in relief because FINALLY the darn thing will stop spamming your inbox with alerts._  
_


	13. Flickering candles in the dark

Hey guys, guess who's back from the dead? Yup. Aaanyway. Anybody still reading this? First off, thanks a whole bunch for bearing with me while I went over ups and downs and this project went un-updated for months at a time (I guess that's how I lost quite a bit of my readership, but I suppose I had it coming for that). This is sort of a early Christmas present/late Chanukah present--well, something, anyway. Happy Holidays to you all, essentially. But please... no Christmas carols. (Trust me... I'm in Japan right now, and because it's December there are Christmas carols being played on every street, on every street corner, up and down escalators in malls, in malls proper, and outside restaurants where little Santa figurines are shaking their hips and singing Jingle Bell Rock--I kid you not--and so now I am thoroughly, thoroughly tired of Christmas carols. Though I may do a Christmas fic just because.) Shoutout goes to my terrific beta the Tears of Ages who read over this chapter in spite of a crunch week at school, you're amazing!

Anyway. The standard disclaimer applies, as usual, and the usual warnings!! There is some BL (boys' love, the term they like to use for yaoi in Japan nowadays) and... really, if you didn't like it, I have to wonder why you're even reading this far--but if it doesn't float your boat, please don't read it and complain about it. The back button is the big arrow pointing to the left at the top of your browser, and is pretty easy to find--your best friend if you have a habit of clicking stories you don't like. For the rest of you (and you people make my day, faithful readership--I should finish building that shrine to you after I finish this note, haha) enjoy! The end of this tale is drawing near.

P.S. For those of you not too familiar with the Legend of Zelda fandom, the three goddesses of Hyrule are Nayru, Farore, and Din--each goddess is the cardinal deity of one of the triad of virtues from Hyrule, meaning Wisdom, Courage, and Power respectively. Since they make an appearance (however brief) this chapter, let me clarify one thing--  
Nayru speaks in underlined text, Farore speaks in **bolded and underlined** text, and Din is (if you haven't already figured it out through process of elimination) in **bold.** Just to make sure nobody gets confused. All right, thanks for putting up with the horribly long author's note!

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"Long ago and very far away there lived twin sisters—the Night Mare and the nameless one. They were terrible beings, for their very purpose was to exploit the darkness in hearts. Yet back while they were still young, there were no hearts and thus none of that kind of darkness, save in their own—and their parents, Father Time and the Apocalyptic Mother, turned a blind eye as they took to torturing each other. Night Mare liked to wait until her nameless sister fell asleep and torment her with horrible visions as she slept, and these visions became known as nightmares, named after herself. The nameless one would continually act on the darkness in her sister's heart, in turn, and even as Night Mare stood by—horrified by the destruction and the terrible things that the nameless one read in her sister's darkness—so she shrieked aloud, just as her sister did when plagued by the nightmares of her sister's creation, as the nameless one plunged a hand into her chest and tore out her heart, eating it whole and licking her lips when she was done.

"But because Night Mare and her nameless sister were both blessed (or cursed, perhaps) with eternal life, youth, and near omnipotence in all senses of the word, such injuries did not debilitate Night Mare—for she simply regenerated her heart each time it was eaten. This continued on for eons, until finally the twins tired of torturing each other and wrenching gut-twisting cries with each awful thing that the other inflicted. Then they asked Father Time what to do, but they had already spent so much of his precious stores of time that he refused to let them play with the time-loom like they wanted to. 'No, daughters, you will only weave knots into the fabric of time and then we shall all be set to flounder, lost. And both of you would delight in it, for your very existence is founded upon the pain of others.'

"Given such an answer by their sire, they then went to their Apocalyptic Mother, and asked to be allowed to play with the baubles of Apocalypse. But the Apocalyptic Mother said no. 'These are to be broken upon the eve of the destruction of all existence, and only then. You would take them and wear the outer shells thin and then you would tangle them into your father's loom so that when he undoes the knots they would fall and break and destroy all existence. And surely both of you would delight in it, for your very existence is founded upon the pain of others.'

"Bored and knowing not what to do, the two sat down and invented a game—Night Mare and the nameless one would describe what seemed most horrible, most contrary to their nature, most beautiful and most savage… many things, indeed. Night Mare, being possessed of the most lively imagination, described many beings great and small, all wielding a tiny bit of Apocalypse's power and some control over Time's flow. The nameless one was not nearly as imaginative as her sister, but she brought the darkness to life in her hair-raising descriptions.

"And so it came that one night Night Mare fell asleep at the same time as her sister, and they dreamed of these creations they'd described—and lo! As both slept and both saw, Night Mare's visions came to life and became the gods. The Apocalyptic Mother was delighted, and though Father Time was slightly appalled at this he shook his head and left his daughters' creations alone.

"At the same time, the nameless one latched onto a thread of her sister's power—and so when she dreamed the darkness in her own heart overwhelmed her sight and her dreams gave way to all the horrifying creatures of the times of old, and the seeds from which the future horrors would arise. And while the Night Mare's gods were still far too young, there was an epoch of horror in which the nameless one was queen of a dark kingdom, where each evil thing did such loathsome things to one another that there was no lacking of hearts to devour. But the hearts she swallowed were poisoned by the evil nature of the very beings she'd created, and so slowly her own heart twisted and shriveled and soon she grew indifferent to the morbidly comedic antics of her monstrous court jester and ordered him torn asunder. It was so that she also became more and more dangerously beautiful with each passing day that when she turned her face towards the heavens Father Time accidentally made a knot in the fabric of time for staring.

"Yet as time passed the Night Mare's creations grew to maturity, and having fended off the demons all their lives knew how to go about overthrowing the nameless one's dark kingdom. Curiously enough, the nameless one (known now as the Demon Queen, for her subjects were probably no less than demons) had also created… people. They were often brutalized and even more frequently killed by her demonic creations, but those that survived lived in hidden enclaves and were more than ready to rise up against the demons. And so, led by the young gods of the Night Mare's creation, they rebelled, killing every demon that crossed their path until there were precious few left—though these were so immensely powerful that they were as twisted, chaotic gods themselves. And so these the young gods sealed away in the knots that Father Time had woven in the fabric of time, to forever flounder in the void.

"Yet as the people had spilled blood for the first time, they turned upon each other once the demons were gone. Disgusted with this (for by now the Demon Queen had ceased to be so and became simply the nameless one again) the nameless one cast an old magic—the likes of which Father Time and the Apocalyptic Mother also possessed, but not the new gods created in a nightmare—and sent ten years of chaos down among the people, to weed out those who were now all too willing to fight and kill. But slowly, the people disappeared—to the nameless one, it seemed the blink of an eye—and soon there were none left. They inflicted a last wound on the nameless one, though—having discovered a lock of her long, lustrous hair, they constructed a huge wax idol of her and with the hair left it to melt in the sun, which had come into existence some time during the days of the demons. Curiously enough, the idol never entirely melted, but it was enough to give the nameless one the resemblance of a pillar of melting wax.

"Remorseful for the misfortune that had befallen her sister's creations, the Night Mare slowly withdrew and soon seemed to have vanished—though the nameless one knew otherwise. The young gods had created a new race of people, varied in their appearance and personalities, and set them loose to build what they would and make of the demons' land as they might. And they did—although from time to time some of them would suffer from nightmares. No one, though, has seen anything of the nameless one's work since…"

Hands closed the book, and with a wry smile their owner sent it back to where it had been previously shelved. "Ah, mythology… how much of it could possibly be true?"

* * *

_The prince awoke to find the filmy, almost-sheer robe that the young man had been wearing draped over him—probably to keep him warm, he realized with a shiver. It was _cold_, and he didn't know how the other could sleep entirely exposed like that and not seem to mind it at all._

_"I see you're finally awake," came the melting-wax-woman's voice. "Come then, wash up. I'm sure you'd prefer that he woke up to find you clean, unless you'd rather have him wash you…"_

_Mumbling something about not really caring either way, Marth took the towels and the basin full of hot water and began methodically scrubbing himself down, reminded of the wash routines in some of the military encampments he'd stayed in. He'd always had to do a lot of persuasion to convince the officers that no, pavilions were always too much trouble, he was fine with a regular tent, and no, he did not need a soldier to wait on him… Sighing, he was about to start on the usual twisting about at odd angles to get to his back when a warm body draped itself over him from behind._

_"Here… let me do that." The redhead's voice startled him even more than his near-silent approach, and barely managing to keep from dropping the wash towel he held Marth handed it to the man without a word. "… Relax, your Highness. It won't kill you. I'm not going to hurt you, you know."_

_With a flinch that the prince more or less tried to pass off as a shiver (he _hated_ hearing that title out of Roy's mouth, and it bothered him no less with the fake) he forced the tense muscles in his shoulders to relax. The fake hummed his approval and proceeded to scrub Marth's back and shoulders._

_--------------------------------------------------_

"He's coming."

The words were quiet, ominous. Sheik knew all too well what Impa meant, he'd felt this sort of thing before when Zelda had been captured in that strange epoch when their hero was a child in a man's body. The rage that flowed behind the dark energy, though, barely noticeable behind the reek of raw, wild power, was staggering; it surprised even Sheik, who'd pretended to work for the Dark One for a time.

But the epicenter of the dark maelstrom that had swept under at least four towns by now was on the move—headed away from the capitol—cutting a meandering swathe of ruin through the land as it went. Sweeping by the three as they carefully concealed their presences, a young man with red hair and blue eyes that blazed with dark power hefted an eerily familiar broadsword.

There had not been many portraits of current figures in the castle, but the princess had seen one of the prince and his general standing side by side in a casual, but appropriately formal manner. (One had to look closer to see that their hands touched—barely, but it was there.) Zelda suppressed a gasp of surprise as she recognized the figure that had stalked by with Ganondorf's unmistakable darkness hovering about him like a plague—Roy. No wonder the gods had said _if_ there was anything of the general to return to the prince…

"Impa?" the princess whispered urgently.

"Yes, Princess?" the Sheikah woman replied, quietly.

"We must stop him. There is something in that capitol we cannot allow him to get."

"What would that be, Princess?" Sheik asked, warily.

"That power radiating from the castle, the one that we fled from—that took the prince. We cannot allow him to tap into that. Who knows what may happen if he is allowed to become more powerful?"

"As you wish, Princess." Both Sheikah stalked silently to the edge of the clearing, and in a state of muted horror gestured for the princess to follow. Soon, all three could see the destruction left in the young possessed general's footsteps… the dry, cracked ground, like the Gerudo Desert, the wilted, dying, and dead foliage, the searing heat that suddenly split the air despite it being still winter.

But they could not look for long, for an unknown voice hailed them. "Strangers, be you friend or foe? Speak, or be forever silenced!"

--------------------

"Hold your fire until the command is given," Jeanne barked out to the small army. "Speak, strangers!"

None were more surprised than she when the figures they had glimpsed the vague silhouettes of stepped out of the foliage where they had been hidden. The trio looked weary, their eyes speaking of trouble most could not begin to comprehend. "We mean you no harm," the shortest stated, baldly. Golden hair and eyes the color of a perfect azure sky set off a pleasant, almost delicate face—but her blue dress was stained considerably at the hems from running, and her cheeks were smudged with dirt. Her two companions seemed to be in no better shape, though they at least were dressed to travel quickly. "Are you… are you with or against the prince?" she continued, eyes suddenly roaming over the multitude of armed people present. Stiffening suddenly, there was a surge of _something_ in the air around her, magic perhaps. The taller woman produced a pair of short blades, and the androgynous young man on her other side held a brace of needles he hadn't had mere seconds before.

"We march under the prince's banner. If you fight for those accursed rebels, we will cut you down where you stand!" Jeanne replied, her words and bold stance belying the cold fear she felt running through her veins at the strange power that the girl wielded. Immediately, though, the young woman relaxed, the aura around her draining away. Her two companions put up their weapons and seemed a little more at ease, though it was hard to tell—the young man's face was covered, and the taller woman's expression was impossible to read.

"That's a relief… I am Zelda, from Hyrule, and this is Impa." Zelda gestured at the taller woman, who nodded at Jeanne in acknowledgment. "He is called Sheik." She gestured at the young man, who also nodded—though the Sixth Unit member registered some sort of tension in Zelda's features when she introduced the man. "… May I ask where you are headed? Surely there are no faction members so close to the capitol..."

Jeanne shook her head. "That's not why we're headed back. Our general is a traitor. We march back to the capitol to warn the prince of what has happened… he… His Highness will probably not take the news well, but someone must tell him…"

"You cannot." Expression taciturn, Sheik shook his head to emphasize his point. "Return the capitol is not an option. Nor would you be able to speak to the prince, even if you did."

The Sixth Unit members present immediately drew weapons. "What happened to the prince?" asked Caleb. He hefted a war axe almost threateningly. "By the gods, if you've done something to him—"

Sheik shook his head again. "We have done nothing to him. There is a strange dark power that has swallowed the castle—you will find it has consumed all of your fellow guards along with your prince. It is suggested that you do not walk into that place, for there is no guarantee that you can walk out… I would think that even Ganondorf would hesitate to enter a place where he has no control over the powers that run rampant."

"Ganondorf?" For a moment Caleb looked puzzled.

"_He_ is responsible for the sudden change in your general. Your general was a young man named Roy, am I mistaken?"

From the look on each soldier's face at his words, he was not.

* * *

_'Why… why do I let him do this to me? I know he is not the real Roy, I know he is a creation of the nameless being… so why do I let him touch me like this?'_

_Marth's thoughts were cut off as the false Roy's hands wandered down his body, mapping his angles and curves as they went and earning little sounds of pleased approval. "Oh, your Highness… you are beautiful. I will stay by your side and protect you from my creator as long as I may," the redhead murmured into the skin of the prince's shoulder, moving up to kiss the curve of the prince's jaw and then to steal a kiss from rosy lips, already swollen from previous kisses._

_What had that been about? Yet Marth offered no resistance, a single tear the only outward indication of his inner battle with his conscience. Even then the voice that nagged that it was not Roy—that this was wrong, that he betrayed his love even now as he writhed and moaned under the ministrations of a copy—lost eventually, his arms coming up to wrap themselves around the redhead's shoulders and his tongue immediately grappling with his paramour's as he sat up in the man's lap. _

_His vision turned white; one last thrust and he was gone, toppled over the cliff of climax and loving every aching second of it. Barely coherent, the prince mumbled, "Forgive me, Roy," and soon fell asleep, in the arms of his lover's look-alike._

_When he woke the redhead was still asleep. A fresh tub of warm water and clean towels waited, though, and so Marth carefully extricated himself from the man's loose embrace and went to wash up. Just the tiniest twinge of soreness greeted him as he stood and stretched, and though he frowned as he realized exactly how time he'd been spending unclothed as of lately he didn't bother with the redhead's robe—it probably wouldn't do him much good, since it seemed to just come back off soon enough anyway._

_Time passed strangely in the nameless one's realm. Walls were sparse here—for the matter any sort of architecture whatsoever was difficult to come by. An odd wind seemed to blow every so often, but he could not tell just how often that was. The strange floating spheres of light that illuminated small areas dimmed and brightened according to some flow of time, but he could not figure out how they worked and was loath to ask the melting-wax-woman. It felt like a week had passed, for the false Roy seemed to keep a schedule for how often he was to tumble the prince—at least he'd been able to figure that much out—and then there was the slight sense that he was in great danger. He could not tell how he knew this, though, or what the danger was—Marth could only feel that something was going terribly wrong with his body, and that his time was ever so slowly running out._

_--------------------------------------_

The castle was still and silent. Translucent, black crystals grew in jagged, bizarre patterns all over the place—large, dark crystals floated in the hallways, captives within their depths still and often deathly pale. In one a girl in a revealing dress held a chalice that itself seemed to contain crystals—but they were slowly spreading. Able to pass through the shell that held its bearer hostage, scarlet crystals bled through the cage and down to the floor, spreading all over the place. If one were to look closely, one could see that each crystal bore a seed of black within—and they spread quickly, like spilled wine. But the crystals would not stop growing, and inside her prison the girl's face slowly grew paler and paler, until finally a point of scarlet crystal forced itself up through the flesh between her breasts. Even if she could scream, there was no one to hear her.

What of the prince's body, imprisoned in his own study by the same black crystal that warped the poisoned wine? His visage too slowly grew paler and paler, and the crystal that kept him caged was tinted with a sickly shade of red. With time, the pendant around his neck that threw off such a strong blaze of pure light grew weaker, the light fading a little with each passing day. And each time the light faded his lips grew a little less rosy…

------------------------------

Far away, a young elfin man garbed in green leveled his bow at a target and shot an arrow, hitting the bull's-eye with impeccable aim. Something tugged at him though, and stowing his bow he leaped astride Epona, riding to see what it was that called him.

"Link, Link!" the voice cried, sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh, but more often than not laden with the dead weight of despair—"Hero of Time, savior of Hyrule from darkness more times than can be counted, wielder of the Master Sword! Please… save my kingdom!"

And then he was not riding through the forest any longer but floating in a dark place with the Triforce before him—and the three goddesses spoke.

**"The princess has invoked us. He calls you. It is clear, Hero of Time, that you must take up your sword once more."**

"It will not be an easy task, however. Altea lies far beyond the boundaries of Hyrule, and by the time you reached it on horseback the prince who pleads for your aid would already be dead."

**"And so we will send you to Altea. An enemy of old—who bears my blessing—awaits you. There is much power in the air, though—the gods of the kingdom are playing dangerous games, and an old power is at work. Be wary, and go with our blessings. To Altea, Link—protect your princess and the prince who asks you for help. Lay an old evil to rest, for good! Let not the feet of the King of Evil walk upon a land so suited to peace!"**

With those words he felt the weight of the Master Sword and the Mirror Shield thump him on the back solidly, and then he was falling through a portal—and he could hear Epona's distressed whinny behind him as he fell.

---------------------------

He slammed into dry, dead earth, his landing undignified—though his gear was unharmed. Link stood, and looked around—there was not green for a mile all around, and the very air was so infused with dark magic that it made his skin crawl.

"What… what is this place?" he asked the air.

"This used to be a fair kingdom in an era of peace—we call the kingdom Altea," a voice told him flatly. "Now it is barren like this in many places—not only is the prince nowhere to be found, but his general is acting nothing like himself and reeks of dark magic. 'Tis a pity, really—I heard they were lovers. It must break the prince's heart for his general to betray him so!"

Link smiled wryly at the 'lovers' part. "It must be the worst kept secret in all of this kingdom if even tavern gossips speak of it."

"Oh no. It's merely speculation, simply because at so many public affairs the prince never shows up with whatever young woman he might be courting, but opts to bring his general instead. He is not a warlike prince at all, so the only explanation is that they are far closer than they claim to be." A slightly portly older man in a navy-blue tunic and tan trousers strolled up, carrying a shovel. Casting a curious glance at Link's garb and his pointed ears, he grinned. "The name's Elias—that's all you really need to know. Not too many Elias' around these parts… you ask for one and I'll be there. What might your name be, youngster?"

Snorting at the thought of being addressed as 'youngster,' Link replied, "I'm Link. What… what exactly are you doing out here, anyway?"

"Me? I'm digging to find an underground lake or something. There's gotta be water around here somewhere, I just know it! When the general walked through here some two days back, there was water. I know there was! Now if only I can find it…"

Cocking an ear, the Hylian listened intently and heard an exceedingly faint slosh-slosh below him. Unsheathing the Master Sword he carved an X on the spot he'd been standing. "There. That should probably be where it is."

Elias gave him a quizzical look, but began to dig—and whooped in excitement as not much more than three yards below the surface water bubbled up when he dug the shovel in. "Well, wouldja look at that! Can't thank you enough… what can I do for you?"

"All I want to know is which way the general went." The trail was only two days old. If he pushed himself, he could shorten it to half a day's distance. It could be Ganondorf hiding in the general's guise, Link mused—and then snapped back to attention as the man began to answer his question.

"He went that way," Elias immediately pointed south. "May the gods give your feet wings and ward you from trouble and grief." He bowed and returned to work.

Nodding in thanks, Link began his trek due south.

* * *

A/N: Okay. Season's greetings to you all, my wonderful readership! May your holidays be an occasion for cheer--or at least a decent vacation, aye? All I want for Christmas is revieeeews! (Yep, I tweaked the Mariah Carey song, haha.) Kidding... but reviews would be amazing! Even if it's just to throw fruitcake at me, haha, because it is the season for fruitcake... though I never really knew why, ahaha. Anyway, concrit is wonderful, and if you like it... well, I won't really know unless you tell me, so please make my Christmas wish come true! Hahaha. See you next time! 


	14. A shattering reunion, betrayal, defiance

Hello, everyone! First update of 2007! Can you believe that this fic is is already over a year old? Nuts, isn't it? Kudos as usual to my goddess of a beta, The Tears of Ages--I'm declaring it out loud and in public, people, the fanfic wouldn't have gotten anywhere near this length without her. She and my lovely reviewers are the driving force behind my motivation to write. And I'm being honest here. One hundred percent candid.

Anyway, standard disclaimers apply--please, no lawsuits. I don't really own the characters I play with (except for the blatantly original ones, but they're plot devices so it's all good... sort of) and I'm not making any money off of this. Anyway. We also have your standard BL warnings (slashy content, in other words) and new, this chapter, abuse! Just so you don't go "WTF, Hikaru, you sick person, springing a whipping on him (and us) like that without any warning!!" So... yes. You've been forewarned. The back button is where it always has been.

For those of you sticking around, enjoy! We're getting ever closer to the end. Just for those of you who were confused--you'll see why it's called "In Writing a Letter" soon enough. I promise. Just... not this chapter, a'ight? Cool.

* * *

He walked. And walked, and walked, and walked some more. At last, when he tripped over a stone, he just lay there. Navi would have called him stupid to have come this far without so much as asking Elias for a bottle of water or something, and Tatl would have just laughed at him. Epona… well, Epona was probably worried about him right now, but she could take care of herself. 

Wearily pushing himself up, he was surprised to find a winged horse swoop down and land a few yards away. As he got to his knees and then to his feet, the armored young man riding the winged horse dismounted and walked over to look at him.

"Hey… you're not from the Embyrr Faction, are you?" Link looked up, surprised.

"… What's that?" The genuine confusion must have shown on his face, as the young man laughed and lowered the lance tip he'd had pointed at Link's throat.

"That's a good enough answer for me. What are you doing out here without any supplies, though? Ever since the general" and he looked remorseful, for a moment "changed and walked through here, it's been a desert. You should know better than to go out in places like this without at least water!"

For a moment the Hylian studied the man's armor and the winged horse. "Who… who are you?"

Subconsciously the man seemed to stand a little straighter, the only thing keeping him from saluting smartly being the absence of armor anywhere on Link's person. "I'm Chester Sagis, Pegasus knight from the 5th Unit, 17th Platoon. Currently I am on patrol, but have run across you, sir, sprawled out on the sand like a man in a bar who has had one too many drinks. Might I ask you your name?"

Throat dry, the Hylian croaked, "I'm Link. I've never seen a Pegasus before, and I'm from Hyrule. I… I'm sort of a freelance swordsman." That was really all he could call himself… "Hero of Time" seemed too pretentious a title to put on, especially in places where likely no one had ever heard of the hero of time. Probably… probably not even the prince. In any case he'd heard the term in some of the bars he'd seen over the course of the years and the description—once he'd looked it up, anyway—fit better than the whole Hero of Time business.

Yet the goddesses had said that it was the prince who called him… or had it been? The voice had been somewhat indistinct… there was little about it to distinguish it from the hundreds—probably thousands, even—of voices he'd heard in his lifetime. The voice had asked for the Hero of Time, however. Maybe… maybe it was not the prince calling after all? His reverie was interrupted by Chester waving a hand in front of his face. Frowning, the Pegasus knight pulled him up and hoisted him onto the Pegasus—he was surprisingly strong, though his slim frame did not seem particularly muscular. "Come on, let's get you back to camp. We have a few more oddballs with pointy ears around, I'm sure you'll fit right in."

------

Neither man noticed the pair of gleaming eyes that glinted with malice. As the Pegasus took to the sky, a shrill whistle sounded and suddenly a flock of Fire Keese burst from the cover of the sun's glare (shrilling in protest at the sunlight cutting through them) and one by one fell out of formation to dive screeching at the winged mount. Terrified, the Pegasus reared, and only Chester's experience with his mount and Link's calm kept both of them from tumbling to the ground that rushed further away with each passing second.

"Can you cover us? I'm sure that's a bow I see among all that equipment you're carrying…" Chester was nervously looking about to gauge possible escape routes. "At this rate you're really the only hope we have, since these… these _things_ don't seem to slow down enough for me to hit without possibly heaving you off first, and I'm pretty sure we don't want that to happen…"

Link nodded—though the Pegasus knight couldn't see the gesture—and strung his bow. Pulling out a few arrows, he prayed he wouldn't fall off and fired them off—just as the Pegasus reared again, striking out frantically with front hooves at the fiery bat-like creatures that wheeled and spun and dove at it, baring sharp, ripping teeth.

Three arrows zipped out, trajectories smooth, and found marks. With ear-rending shrieks three—no, four, because one arrow had gone straight through its target and found another too close behind it—Fire Keese spiraled to the ground to land as flickering, ragged heaps of monster flesh and bone. A grim expression on his face, the Hylian nocked arrow after arrow to his bow and loosed them, until none but one of the bat-like monsters remained—though not for lack of trying on their part. Chester had skewered a few with his lance when they dove shrilling straight at him—all he'd had to do was sharply thrust out with the weapon and the creatures impaled themselves on it. "I take it they don't have spears where these things come from?" the Pegasus knight quipped.

"The ones with spears are usually on their side. The Hylian Knights, as far as I could tell, couldn't fly." Link took aim and shot down the last Keese, unstringing his bow calmly and stowing it. Accepting the skin of water that the scout handed him, he drank a few sips and handed it back gratefully. "Now… if I'm to find others like me at your camp, then by all means please take me there. I think I've had enough of wandering about on my own, all the same."

"Roger that!" Chester replied cheerfully. Putting away the water skin, he grinned and spurred his Pegasus on. "C'mon, Etherlight! Let's go back!" The Pegasus whickered in reply and flew faster.

* * *

"Looks like one of our forward scouts is reporting back in," Jeanne told the Hylian girl. "I don't suppose you would happen to recognize the extra passenger in green, would you?" She passed the spyglass to Zelda. 

"I don't suppose…" The princess looked through the spyglass anyway, and the sight of the familiar green garb made the breath catch in her throat. "I… I don't believe it! He's here! He's really here!!" She handed the spyglass back to Jeanne and hitched the hems of her dress up to run to the designated landing area for Pegasus knights.

Watching the girl run, the guard shook her head. "Well, I'll be. She knows him, then…"

"Undoubtedly. After all, he has had to save her a number of times." The voice startled her, and before she knew it she had her sword point at Sheik's throat. "… Relax. It's only me. Save your weapons for your enemy."

"… Don't surprise me like that," the guard replied crossly. "Who is this guy, anyway?"

"The one the princess has gone chasing after? His name is Link. I think I'll go and look in—it's been too long since I've last seen him." The Sheikah slipped away as silently and stealthily as he'd appeared, leaving Jeanne stunned.

"… Princess? Wait… Zelda's a princess? She… I… agh! I didn't know that!" she yelled in Sheik's direction. "What am I supposed to do now? I've been treating her casually this whole time, she isn't going to have me put on Hyrule's 'most wanted' list for being too informal with her, is she?"

"Don't worry about it." Impa had appeared just as silently as Sheik had, polishing cloth for her short blades still in her hand. "The princess did not introduce herself as royalty, and she is not an unfair sort. She would not punish you for being unable to read her mind."

Jeanne watched Impa walk away with some trepidation. "… I really hope the princess was just trying not to be obvious" her hands shook as she sheathed her sword "because otherwise I'm in some pretty deep trouble." Shaking her head at the series of strange events she'd run into, the Sixth Unit guard tucked her spyglass into her supply pack and headed down to see which of the scouts the princess' friend had come in with.

* * *

"Link? Link, it's really you! What are you doing here?" The Hylian barely had time to register that it was Zelda's voice before she came dashing in, the hem of her gown fairly tattered and stained and her face acceptably clean rather than impeccably. Then, of course, he didn't have time to react at all as she simply threw herself at him and hugged him. "Link, thank the goddesses you've come! There's… there's a crisis in this land, and…" She trailed off as her eyes met his. 

"It's good to see you too, Princess," he told her, a smile playing across his face. He nodded to Impa, in greeting, and then froze as his gaze met the crimson eyes of a certain Sheikah he thought he'd never see again. "… _Sheik_?"

"In the flesh, or so they say," the male Sheikah quipped. He wasn't exactly prepared for Link to break out of Zelda's loose hug and tackle him. "… Very well. You've caught me. Now what do you intend to do?"

The Hylian sat back and looked Sheik over a couple times. "I'll leave your face covered for now, though I _am_ still curious to see what's under the wrappings. I still can't believe you're real, though… I thought you were just the princess in disguise!" He grinned delightedly, as if he'd been given a completely unexpected present, and leaned forward to better study Sheik's face—his posture reminiscent of the child he'd been while living with the Kokiri.

The Sheikah looked insulted. "Me, just a shadow of the princess? You wound me, Link. After all that time we spent together, too…" Then, utterly contrary to what Link had gathered of his character, he laughed.

------

Zelda watched the exchange and hid a smile behind a hand. True, she'd fancied Link for a while, but then again so had pretty much every other girl in Hyrule—and it wasn't fair to cut in on his time with someone he hadn't seen since he'd gone back to relive the seven years he'd missed. Not to mention that it tickled her fancy to think that maybe the two were involved… Impa looked at her strangely as she tried hard to stifle giggles.

"Is… there something amusing, Princess?" Jeanne had just come across this strange scene, and simply ignoring the fact that Link was currently sitting on Sheik—she was pretty sure he could have simply dodged that tackle, he was fast enough—she strode purposefully towards the scout who'd flown in. Chester, for the matter, was already fidgeting—either she made him nervous, or he'd just heard her and realized what their guest's true rank was.

"Nothing at all, Jeanne. Nothing at all." The princess turned and smiled at her, which made her fidget too. Debating whether a nod was considered insubordinate or if a bow was too much, she was saved the indignity of hazarding an incorrect guess by Chester's question.

"Erm… Zel—uh… well… that is… Princess? Er… your Highness, um… we've gotten so used to acting like you were just anybody ordinary that… umm… meaning no disrespect, but… er… Idon'tknowhowtoactaroundyou." The words came out all in a jumble and Zelda had to take a moment to figure out what it was he'd said.

When she finally did understand, she began to laugh. "Oh, hahaha! It's fine, the way you've been acting. You don't have to bow or anything, you know. It's not that important, I'm just an unexpected visitor here." Immediately the Pegasus knight calmed down.

"Oh. Phew, for a moment I thought I'd get in trouble." A sheepish expression on his face, Chester remounted Etherlight and made ready to take off.

------

"Not so fast, scout! Report back first, and then you can leave!" Jeanne barked. Immediately the Pegasus knight did a double-take and dismounted.

"Sir, yes sir!" Chester stood to attention and saluted smartly. "Nothing unusual to report. I picked up one person, this man" he gestured towards Link "who did not even know what the Embyrr Faction was. Therefore I was fairly sure that he was a friend and not an enemy. Sir!"

Jeanne raised a brow. "You didn't use a truth spell, did you?"

"Sir, no sir!"

"Then just _how_ would you know that he wasn't lying? The Princess knows him, so we know he's safe now, but how would you know that _before_ you bring him into camp? Remember that, soldier! Is there anything else you have to report?" Jeanne barked out.

"Nothing to report, sir!"

"Dismissed!" She grinned, though, and the slightly harried-looking Pegasus knight could smile back as he hastily mounted Etherlight. Watching him take to the skies, she remarked to no one, "He's a good kid, even if a bit too trusting. I hope he makes it out of this alive. It would be a shame to lose him."

"True. I like him, he's not a bad sort at all." Link walked up, his footsteps heavier than the others' from the weight of all his equipment.

Heaving a sigh, Jeanne turned to face him. "Oh good, at least you don't sneak up on me like Sheik and Impa. I swear, they must enjoy making me jump ten feet in the air out of surprise. I thought I was well-trained against surprises, too."

Materializing next to Link, Sheik replied "You are. We are simply well-trained in the arts of stealth—if you were the average person, you might have died before you could register either of our presences."

"What about me?" Link wanted to know. "I registered you were there before you could manage to kill me."

Sheik pulled a wry face—or as wry an expression as could be seen when only his eyes were visible. "If you died we would have all been in trouble anyway. I hadn't even really considered trying."

* * *

"—So that was how I ended up deciding I'd never go swimming for too long again, if I could help it." The Hylian youth smiled sheepishly and raised a standard mess kit-issue cup of watered-down mead. "To the prince!" he declared, and drank deep. 

"To Prince Marth!" the soldiers cried, draining their tankards.

"To the Princess!" shouted Chester, raising his tankard and gulping down a dram of his mead. Much to his embarrassment, he coughed as the mead burned down his throat—he was far too used to that tea he was always drinking, one of his neighbors told him kindly; another gave him a few solid whacks on the back to help clear up his sudden cough attack.

Some of the other soldiers looked at him, then Zelda, and their eyes widened as they made the connection. Without hesitation, they raised their tankards too and drank a toast to the princess, who grinned cheekily and drained a cup of her own.

Jeanne raised her half-empty tankard, and shouted, "A toast to the four new allies we've gained this day!" This was met by a resounding cheer, and the soldiers drank what was left in their tankards and set them down on the table. Cheerily, they dispersed to their posts.

-----

"I don't see how that particular display helped your forces any, Jeanne," Sheik commented, voice neutral and eyes calm. "I believe they'll be that much easier to pick off, with the alcohol in their bodies."

Jeanne looked at him crossly and poured the scant remainder of her mead out onto a stubby bush growing nearby. Amusingly enough, it perked up a little when it absorbed the liquid, but she didn't take any notice of it. "The general used to let them take a moment in the evening while we were out on a campaign to sit around the fire, have a tankard of mead, and just make toasts to anything—usually they were to the prince, although occasionally somebody would slip in a bawdy comment with those." She laughed, ruefully. "It always made us smile, to see the general blush like a maiden—it told us that for all of his strengths he was still human. In any case, it was only one tankard full, and I saw no reason to discontinue the practice."

The Sheikah studied her, eyes unreadable for a moment. "I speak only against the effects alcohol has on reaction times and on the wits. I have never met a man whose tongue was not loosened by drink, nor have I met one whose wits were sharpened and whose senses were heightened. Your soldiers will be more easily killed in such a condition."

"It keeps them happy. They only have enough that within an hour the effects will wear off entirely." She fixed him, in turn, with a level stare. "Happy soldiers will fight to protect the conditions that keep them so contented. They love this kingdom, like they love the prince who rules it. That is why we were willing to go against our general, when he betrayed us."

There came a shout, and the sounds of a scuffle. "Rally to me!" cried a voice—one that Jeanne recognized. "Rally to me, brethren of the new queen's order!"

"No… Philippe, you _fool_!" she growled, loping towards the Sixth Unit tents to muster the royal guards. "I'll see that you hang!"

-----

She seemed to have forgotten entirely about Sheik in her sudden rancor. He shook his head knowingly as he watched her run, palming a brace of needles and walking calmly towards the source of the commotion.

"Sheik… what's happening?" came a soft voice, unsure.

"It appears that someone has turned traitor," he replied, without turning around. "I figured I may as well incapacitate him before he does any damage—it is the least I could do to further the princess' cause."

A gloved hand came down to rest on the Sheikah's shoulder. "Then I'll go too. I… can probably take more hits than you now, so I'll be the distraction." But as the Hylian walked past him, Sheik could see it in Link's blue eyes that he was terribly distracted. Something was bothering him—and in that state he would likely get hurt much more than he should. Even worse, he might inadvertently wound an ally, which would weigh terribly on him. He knew the youth well enough to understand that. Which was why… no, he could explain later.

"I'm sorry, Link." Before the Hylian could turn around and ask what the Sheikah had meant, Sheik had struck him a solid blow to the head. Carmine eyes met blue, and registered the betrayal in them—and then Link had crumpled to the ground, unconscious. "You should not have to deal with such ugly affairs," the Sheikah murmured. It sounded weak even to his own ears. Suppressing the sudden feeling of guilt welling up inside, he dashed off towards the brawl.

* * *

_"Your time is running out," the melting-wax-woman intoned, ominously. "What will you do with it? Use it to pretend some more? Attempt to break out of this place? What? I am beginning to tire of you. Entertain me, that I might further preserve your life."_

_Marth did not reply. He looked up at the woman's melting-wax face from where he knelt at her feet, his eyes empty and very nearly soulless. When the melting-wax-woman snarled at his unresponsiveness and slashed at him with a whip of melting-wax-material, cutting another red weal on his cheek, he looked down at the floor and ignored the blood trickling from the shallow wound._

_"Each toy I take becomes like this!" she raged, gliding to stand behind him and lash out mercilessly with the whip. Angry red welts began to stripe themselves over the prince's bare back, his body jerking with each lash. He made little strangled noises of pain as she whipped him. "Why do you ignore me? _Why_? This is _my_ realm, and you will _obey _me!" She brought the whip down harder, breaking skin and leaving bloody welts in the wake of her fury. "ANSWER ME!"_

_The only reply she heard was a choked sob, and the near indiscernible _plip_ of tears striking the ground. Caged inside himself, the prince wept._

_A hand caught her wrist as she brought the whip back for another lash. "Leave him alone, Dark Mother. You planted the seeds for this, when you brought him here. Mortals die in places like this—their souls fade away with time. You're going to destroy him, whether you wanted to or not… and not even his heart will remain. Is that what you really wanted?" The young man she had created in the shape of Marth's lover stood there, in defiance of his creator. "Leave him alone."_

_She glared at him, wrath written clearly on her face. "I am nameless, but I am one of the Firstborn as well. I made you with the ancient, forbidden arts of Father Time and Mother Apocalypse! You would defy me, when I created you, when I can just as easily unmake you?"_

_He smiled, then. With one last longing look at the prince, who remained kneeling on the floor—head bowed, back spattered with blood and lash-marks, lithe body beautifully exposed—the redhead remembered something the prince had told him once, half-delirious and weary after an exceptionally intense round of intercourse. And he turned his face towards the melting-wax-woman and poured his feelings, his desires, his heart and soul and entire _existence_ into three deadly words. "Yes. I would."_

_----- _

___With an enraged shout that made even the mortal prince—whose soul was slowly dying in this strange realm—turn to look (an expression of horror written on his face, as he realized what was transpiring before his eyes), the melting-wax-woman pointed a sluggishly melting and re-forming finger at the redhead. "Then RETURN! Return to the nothing from whence you came!" She shrieked two arcane words, the very sounds of which made Marth's ears ring and his breath catch painfully in his throat for two seconds—like an invisible hand had grabbed his throat and was intent on choking him to death—and the false Roy crumpled without a sound, his body vanishing before it could hit the floor. _

"Who are you?"

"… I was created in Roy's image. If I am to be denied his name, then I… I am no one. I have no identity besides that name."

"Please… ahhn, _haahh_! _Roy_!"

"… Oh, your Highness, you are beautiful… I promise, I will keep you safe from my creator as long as I may…"

"Will I ever leave this place?"

"… You will. I promise. I love you, Marth… my prince."

"Soon I will free you from this place, your Highness. Even if it costs me my life."

"Why… why would you do something like that? Why are you so willing to pay such a price?"

"… Because I love you, Marth. Because I am only a pale imitation of your true love. Because this is the only thing I can do that _he_ cannot."

-----

___Bright light flared from where the redhead had been standing, then, and beneath the prince's feet the floor became less than solid. He was too stunned to notice, though, watching in disbelief as the man who had loved him so tenderly despite being only a creation of an ancient entity simply ceased to exist. Without a struggle, without a cry, he fell—and fell, and fell… and as he fell, there came the sound of something breaking, and the screech of a terrible creature denied its prey._

___Then there was light._

* * *

A/N: All right, people! That's all for now. See ya next time! (P.S. Reviews are beautiful, amazing things. Unless there's like three people reading the story like a hundred times a month or something, I'm pretty sure that there are more of you out there--please, ghost-readers, let me know who you are so I know whether or not you're reading this because you like it or because you need something to make fun of. Seriously. To my lovely reviewers--thank you so much!) 


	15. A brief respite?

Hi everybody! Holy cow, chapter 15 already? Sheevus. Anyway, standard disclaimers apply. More violence this chapter--for anyone who liked the mythology thing I put in this monster of a fic, those powers don't _quite_ disappear, so keep an eye out for them.

Kudos as usual to The Tears of Ages, because she is my beautiful, amazing beta and the fic owes its continued existence as readable material to her feedback. Thanks also to my lovely reviewers, who chip in and help keep me writing--you guys rock! On to the story!

- (P.S. A single dash is a spacer, because FF doesn't like having extra spaces in without anything in between. Honestly.)

* * *

The princess dreamed that the prince lay captive in the black crystal, his eyes closed and his face serene—as if he only slept. Yet for some reason his expression kept changing—one moment it would be peacefully composed, the next she could see that a faint flush had crept up on his face and his lips had parted slightly, and the next he bore the look of a man in pain. It was the first time she'd had this dream, she thought—and yet suddenly the prince's crystal floated before her, close enough that she could reach out and touch it—and beside it stood a man who looked uncannily like the general whom Ganondorf had possessed. "… Roy?" she asked, astonished. 

The redhead shook his head, and held a finger to his lips. "I am not Roy… not _his _Roy. I could never be so much. But… you must free him, you must! Before _she_ finds me here, before she truly erases me. He must not stay in her clutches any longer…" Self-consciously he plucked at the thin material of the white robe he wore, draping around his body and outlining far more than it hid. "Please… you are the only one I could find who had so much brilliant light it could cut through this darkness."

"What must I do?" she asked.

"… Just touch the crystal. It… It will break, if it comes in contact with a person of such power." The young man looked at her pleadingly. "You are my last hope, Princess."

She looked at him, puzzled, as he said that. Reaching out a hand she laid her palm against the smooth, cold surface of the crystal—and there came the sound of a loud crack, followed by another and another until the crystal's entirety was riddled with breaks—and then came the sudden crash of the crystal's destruction as shards flew in all directions. Free of the crystal's encasing at long last, the prince drifted gently down to the floor where he remained unconscious; the pendant that shone urgently at his throat finally faded down to a quiet glow.

For a while she studied the redhead's face, as he knelt by the prince's side and gazed down at Marth's sleeping visage with something like yearning and something of grief. "… Why do you look at him so?" she inquired, out of curiosity. "…Were you a prisoner of this woman as well?"

He laughed, then, bitterly. "No. She created me. The woman has no name, but she is one of all Existence's Firstborn. I cannot say she has kept me caged, for I do not know what being caged or released feels like. But I know his Highness does not belong with her. I half suspect when she created me she utilized her own gift so that I would do the one thing that would hurt me the most."

"What does that mean?" Zelda looked him straight in the eyes and realized with a jolt that the irises were dull, essentially soulless—he was like a living doll.

"I fell in love with him." And the redhead refused to say any more, only gazing longingly down at the prince until the princess was beginning to feel the rays of the sun slipping through the tent flap to fall onto her soundly sleeping face. Then he leaned down, and despite himself claimed one last kiss from the prince—and vanished. He left not a trace, not even an energy signature. With a shiver, the princess woke up—

—and found that someone had been deposited into her tent during the night. The prince of Altea lay on the floor of the tent, his eyes closed and his expression sad. The pendant he wore, though, shone brilliantly—bright enough that Zelda flinched away from it as the light stung her eyes. As the prince opened his own, the light faded to a bearable intensity. The comfort wasn't worth the pained, lost expression on Marth's face as he sat up with a start and looked around, panic written in his eyes.

"Shhh… it's okay." Zelda rested a hand on his shoulder, meaning to comfort him—but he batted the hand away, fear obvious in his fair features. "You're safe now, Marth! You're not a prisoner anymore. We won't let anyone hurt you!" She kneeled by his side and hugged him, gently—though she was troubled as she felt something warm and wet seep through the cloth on his back. The prince said not a word, but turned in her loose embrace and buried his face into her shoulder—his body trembling, wracked with sobs, completely abandoning his usual dignity and poise in favor of letting all the frustration and grief and pain and sorrow he'd suppressed over the past years flood out in the unintelligible howl that burst from his lips.

The arm that had come in contact with his back was stained red. Blood.

----

"Welcome back, Prince Marth! We're glad to see your Highness is safe—and yet where are the others? I thought Laitha and Renchald would have rather reported to the parade grounds buck naked than let you wander off somewhere unguarded!" The remark garnered a few chuckles, and yet when the healer removed the prince's tunic and discovered the bloody welts crisscrossing his back a hush fell over the remainder of the army. It was indeed far too small now, though the prince had yet to learn why.

"... What… what happened to you, your Highness?" Chester whispered, eyes wide. His squad mates drew gods' circles in the air before them, to ward off evil. "Who… who would dare do such a thing to you?"

"No one that anyone here could possibly harm," the prince rasped. Hurriedly someone came forward and offered him a water skin; with a nod of thanks he took a few sips and resumed talking. "I had the misfortune of running into something of an elder power—"

"We would gladly listen to your story later, your Highness, but right now you must be properly cared for," Jeanne interrupted. "Forgive me for my impertinence, but such wounds fester if left untreated too long."

"Oh, right—of course, right away!" The healer left off gawping at the marks on the prince's back, barking out orders to bring clean, boiled water and some bandages, in addition to a few clean washcloths. He produced a flask of an antiseptic potion from a pack on his hip, and a healing potion from a different compartment. The supplies were brought quickly and efficiently, and soon the wounds were clean and bandaged. "Your Highness, we must change the bandages every so often for a couple of days, and then you should be right as rain—"

"Yes. Thank you." Abruptly the prince stood, perhaps a little too fast—a wave of dizziness overtook him, and for a moment he reeled—time enough to lose his balance and begin a fall—and then firm arms caught him and he had a brief flash of the redhead from the melting-wax-woman's realm._ A copy that I learned to love_…

-

"Are you all right, your Highness?" Marth blinked. The man didn't sound anything like Roy. "Please be careful." Gauntleted hands set him back on his feet, and as he turned to face the man he had the strangest feeling of déjà vu—as if he'd somehow met him before.

The stranger was garbed in green, a sword sheathed on his back with a shield on top of it. He appeared to carry a myriad of other armaments as well—ranging from a bow and a bag full of bombs to a strange device with a handle that was capped with a pyramid—a Hookshot, the man explained. He seemed to be carefully avoiding Sheik's gaze, the latter party standing some distance to the side.

Hesitantly, the prince spoke. "Your voice sounds familiar, yet I cannot place your name…"

The stranger smiled, then, blue eyes honest and innocent—though he seemed a bit older than the prince. "I'm Link. I'm…" and he paused, having momentarily forgotten his declared profession in the events of the night before "… a freelance swordsman." He offered the prince his right hand.

Behind him, Zelda could not help but smile crookedly at the statement. From Hero of Time to freelance swordsman was a bit of a step, but she supposed it was only practical.

"Well met, Link. My name is Marth." They clasped each other's forearms, in the time-old warrior's grip, and the prince found it in himself to smile in return. "You seem quite the versatile swordsman, my friend."

Friend! The word sang through the Hylian's ears like a hymn. "I… this was the product of some rather unorthodox swordsman trials." He gestured down at his gear and grinned. "I have a knack for wandering places where I might make myself useful."

"Then you are welcome here, for we need every sword we can rally to our standard. I have a feeling that the one named Ganondorf will not fall so easily under normal means."

The hair rose on Link's neck. "Ganondorf, did you say? He is _here_?"

"Actually, your Highness, I have one question for you." Sheik stepped forward, carmine eyes calculating and neutral. "How did you escape? It is fortunate for us indeed, for now we may worry less about how we were to extract you from the castle, but it seems unlikely that you could have left on your own."

Marth averted his eyes, looking at nothing in particular. "I… had help. Someone… someone liked me very much where I was imprisoned. He did everything he could to break me out."

"I see." And the Sheikah said nothing more, some ineffable emotion playing over his eyes like the swell and ebb of stormy waters.

"There are greater powers than our own coming into play here," Zelda murmured. "At this point we may only pray that they do not hurt us more than help us."

The prince's lips remained sealed, expression carefully neutral. _Can gods really help at all, without causing problems further down the line for those who pleaded to them for aid?_

Nobody saw the dark expression flit across the Hylian swordsman's face. "… Why is Ganondorf here?" Link murmured, regretting the absence of the fairies that had accompanied him on journeys, once upon a time. Even Navi's annoying "HEY!" would have been welcome at this point—he felt all too keenly that there was something he'd missed, and though Sheik and Zelda seemed to know all too well he himself did not understand.

---

---

_He lay prostrate on the floor, gasping for breath against the waves of agony washing over him. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he let out but the merest inaudible whimpers as the nameless one whipped him, mercilessly. "Dark Mother, enough!" he cried, attempting to get to his knees at least before the lash bit into his back once more—and failing, the lashes raining down on his back and flaying it to the bone, bloody welts crossing his entire back side… all the way down to the soles of his feet from the strokes she'd delivered while he had lain unresponsive on the floor. The white robe was in tatters, unable to withstand her fury, and what was left of it slowly turned a vivid red._

_"You DARED to DEFY me!" she screeched, and brought the whip down for an especially vicious stroke. "You DARED take what was MINE, you DARED to DENY ME my TOY! I MADE YOU, and I can DESTROY YOU!!"_

_He could no longer take the beating she was giving him—with each new lash, some intentionally striking already bloody wounds inflicted by the cruel bite of the whip, he began to howl his suffering. First the sounds were passably quiet, then as the thrashing went on his volume increased; eventually he could not even obey the nameless one's barked commands for him to shut up and take the pain in silence—he began to scream._

_"BE SILENT! Do you want to be whipped some more? Is that it? Do you love the pain, does it bring you pleasure?" the nameless one snarled, spitefully. The whip continued to crack against the young man's already ragged flesh, only bringing forth his tortured shrieking in greater profusion._

_"If you only want to destroy me, _why did you bring me BACK?_" he wailed, half-crazed from the pain and unaware that there were tears flooding down his face._

_The nameless one stopped, then, and put away her whip. "Get out of my sight," she hissed. "Why did you help that useless mortal escape, anyway? He was MY property, for all I allowed you to play with him!"_

_Weakly dragging himself away from his creator, he shook his head. So quietly that she could barely hear him, he replied, "Because I love him, Dark Mother. Even if your heart is corrupted by your own hate and resentment, even if your sight is so clouded by jealousy and rage that you cannot see it—everything you have ever created has a heart. I have one too."_

_With an infuriated roar she turned her face towards him, and shouted the words to unmake him. His body twisted horribly, and with a sickening crack-squelch of breaking bones and ripping muscle and tendon he flew apart, his pieces disappearing before they hit the floor. If anyone else had been there to witness it, they might have sworn that there were tears trailing down his mutilated face._

_She clutched his heart in her hand, its twitching form vividly red against her pale fingers. Raising it to her lips, she opened her mouth and devoured it whole, a trickle of blood dribbling out of the corner of her mouth to drip off her chin. The drop of blood fell a ways to the floor, where it became merely another spot of crimson liquid amongst the blood spatters all over the ground. _

----

----

Roy jerked awake, in control of his body for the first time in what seemed an eternity. Realizing this, he then registered that he had a pounding headache—and then he fell to his knees as what seemed a migraine doubled in intensity until he was sure that something was going to split his skull and spring out of his head. Whatever it was, he wished it would just get the job over and done yet—but before this could happen, a shadowy minion of Ganondorf's knocked. "Enter," he croaked, afraid of what would happen if the creature realized that its master was not the one in control.

Respectfully, the shadow entity stepped into the room. Observing that Roy was on his knees, on the floor, the creature lay itself prostrate in an effort to reassert its inferiority to its master. "Master, the reports have come in."

There was a long, pregnant pause.

When the general realized that it was waiting for his command, he barked, "Well, what are you waiting for? An invitation, gilt lettering and all?"

"N-no, Master." It hastened to give its report. "The flock of Fire Keese patrolling near the Royal Altean Army camp has disappeared, and there has been word of a young man garbed in green, carrying the Master Sword." As if expecting a tirade of some sort, the thing flinched.

Might as well play along, Roy thought. "Tell me more," he growled, curiosity masked by the false (he hoped the fact wasn't obvious) inflection of animosity he put in his speech.

It worked. "Yes, Master. The handler in charge of the Fire Keese flock has reported that a winged horse was seen carrying two riders, one of them the man carrying the Master Sword, just before the Fire Keese attacked them—and were wiped out. It is believed that the horse took them to the Royal Altean Army's camp. Shall we send reinforcements?"

Rubbing his temples and scowling (not so much from displeasure as from the sheer annoyance of the headache, though making the thing quail so was somewhat amusing) Roy declared, "No. Don't bother. I think I'll go take care of this myself." Leaving the thing staring wide eyed at his back as he strode from the room, the redhead collected his gear (and frowned as he realized the Sword of Seals had been changed into some unwieldy giant broadsword… though he relaxed as it changed back under his hand). He saddled a horse in the stables, uneasily… there had to be a catch somewhere. Yet nothing stopped him, the monstrous hostlers in charge of the place merely bowing out of his way.

Leaping astride the mount, he rode off in search of the camp—wondering not for the first time what it was he had done while his body had been under someone else's control.


	16. Confessions, confusion, and time out

Hello again, welcome to chapter 16! Standard disclaimers apply; don't sue me please.

Warnings this time are... generally, fluff between two boys and alcohol consumption. That's pretty much it. You guys are getting off light today--kidding. Anyway, if you don't like this stuff (if you don't like it, why are you reading to chapter 16? That's a waste of both our time!) the back button's exactly where it always is. Or, just click the little "Home" button on the menu bar above the story. No sweat.

Enjoy!

* * *

The sudden clamor outside jarred the prince from fitful sleep; he sat up and absently buckled on his sword belt—which had miraculously materialized with him when he'd appeared in Zelda's tent. His tunic was still bloodstained on the back, but there was little he could do about it… not that he really cared at the moment, emerging cautiously from the tent he'd been assigned to. The soldier he shared it with had already departed, leaving a good quarter of his gear behind in his groggy state of mind. 

"I see the general approaching!!" shouted a scout, stationed in the trees. "But… there's something weird. Why isn't the forest dying? It did before…"

"Does it matter? If the trees began to die you'd fall out of that one, soldier!" Jeanne barked back at him. "All soldiers, to arms, get to your posts!"

---

Marth had finally caught the armor-less soldier and gotten him properly outfitted—the haste the situation demanded gave him the perfect excuse to tell the soldier to ignore his rank and just take the gear, because he'd need it—when he heard the exchange. "… Roy? He's here?"

"Yeah. He's coming, on horseback." It was the same soldier he'd just helped outfit and sent on his way to report in with his platoon. "Jeanne won't hesitate to take a chunk out of him, for killing Belle. Strange how things have turned out, isn't it?" He remembered who he was talking to and added, "Your Highness."

Staring at the soldier in horror, the prince found himself struck dumb. Wetting his lips nervously, he tried again. "He… he did what? Please tell me this is simply a morbid joke of his…" Marth knew, though, that Roy hated morbid humor. He wouldn't stoop to the level of playing such a horrible trick… which meant only one thing. "No… he… he can't have. There—there must have been a mistake? Surely there are other redheaded swordsmen out there…"

"It was no mistake, Your Highness. I was there… I saw it with my own two eyes. And I will tell you that my eyes have not lied to me yet." Jeanne strode forward, a hard expression on her face. "… He killed her in cold blood, Your Highness. Though he may be your lover I cannot forgive him for taking mine from me. His weapon was no sword, but one of her own arrows."

The prince swallowed, past the lump in his throat. Part of him desperately wanted to try to refute her statements, but he knew inside that she told the truth—it was impossible to fake such a vengeful intensity. "Then let me speak with him, to make sense of this madness. Maybe… maybe the Roy I knew is not completely gone."

Unable to speak now without her raging emotions spilling into her voice, Jeanne only nodded and bowed, watching dully as the prince finished fastening his cape over his shoulder and walked away. Rubbing her eyes to rid them of the grit she'd suddenly accumulated in them, she strode briskly to her own post—hidden in the shrubbery somewhat to the side of Marth, so that if the general tried to kill the prince she could at least sink an arrow in him before any severe damage could be done… hopefully.

Caleb patted her solidly on the back, unspoken words of comfort hanging heavy in the air between them. Then he moved on to his own place, checking his equipment as he went. He had a strange feeling this meeting would not turn out well.

-------------------------

After crashing about the woods for almost an hour, Roy managed to ride into the midst of the Altean camp—to find not a soul in sight. As he was about to give up and ride away, though, there was a flash of blue. Reining in his horse, he blinked as he realized who it was walking towards him so calmly. "… Marth?"

"Roy."

The general registered something strange about the prince, though… there was an odd look in his eyes, and tiny lacerations all over his hands. "Marth… what happened to you? Who did this to you?"

The prince met his general's blue eyes squarely with his own blazing irises. "Nothing anyone here could do anything about did this to me." He paused. "… Tell me but one thing, my love—did you kill a member of the Sixth Unit, the young woman named Belle? Did you not turn one of her arrows against her?"

Struck speechless, Roy could only gape at the cobalt-haired swordsman. When was the last time the prince had spoken to him so coldly? Not… not since he'd accidentally insulted his favorite relation, which had been years ago! And yet… slowly he began to remember. There were flashes of a face, a distinctly feminine face—and an arrow in his hand, and the column of her throat just barely exposed by her armor. With a feeling of sick dread in the pit of his stomach, he lowered his eyes—he could no longer look directly at his once-lover, and gods only knew if he would ever be again. "… I did, my lord Prince. And I rue that day of folly, for now my prized unit will never trust me again, bereft of one of its finest soldiers."

"Had she done anything to provoke you?" asked the prince softly.

"… She had not. I—I have no excuses. I… I saw Jeanne and Belle together, so much like we used to be, and I was overcome with jealousy and hopeless rage. And so I prowled around the camp during their watch—Belle fired an arrow at me because I surprised her. I caught the arrow… and I killed her with it." He could not look up to meet the prince's eyes, for fear of their undoubtedly cold and hard expression now. "I fear your inevitable wrath, my lord Prince, and pray your royal Highness would only see fit to order my execution be swift." Dismounting and kneeling before Marth, the general bowed his head—as if waiting for the strike of an executioner's sword.

But the prince's eyes were not cold, not hard, not judgmental or condemning. He wore a sad expression, as if of pity and disappointment—and this, when the general looked up finally and saw, cut deeper into Roy than Marth's iciest tone or cruelest expression ever would. Shaken to the core, he began to beg. "Please don't look at me like that, my lord Prince! Please... Marth, don't torture me with such a cruelly beautiful face…"

The prince said nothing, but strode over to the general and pulled him to his feet.

"Marth…"

The hug was hesitant, as if Marth was afraid of something. Soon enough, though, Roy gave in to the urge to reciprocate the embrace and wrapped his arms around the prince; the cobalt-haired swordsman tightened his own hold as if he was afraid something would wrench the man he held out of his arms. "I missed you, Roy. I missed you so much…"

The general did not hear a word of it, though. A slim dart fletched with crows' feathers and painted with patterns of many-colored dragon scale stood out from his neck, the sleeping poison within it already coursing through his blood. Slumping against the prince, Roy vaguely made out Marth's alarmed voice before all went black.

------------

"Sheik… I need to talk to you."

The Sheikah looked up, carmine eyes carefully guarded. "What is it, Link?"

"… Why?"

The question had not been entirely unexpected. He just hadn't thought that he'd be asked it so soon, or in such a succinct matter—but then again Link had never been one for words. He'd been surprised that the Hylian had spoken so extensively to the prince. "… Why what, Link?"

Blue eyes, anger seething in their depths, locked with his carmine irises. "Why did you knock me out, that night? _Farore_, what in Hyrule did you possibly hope to accomplish by that?"

_Oh._ That incident, two days ago—had it really affected him so? "… I did not wish for your innocence to be despoiled by being forced to fight men who should have been our allies. I doubt you have had to execute traitors before." Sheik met the piercing glare with an even gaze.

"And you _have_? Is that it? What gives you the right to decide that? I told them I would fight for Altea, and I will bloody well fight for it whether you think my 'innocence' needs preservation or not!"

He was really rather terribly attractive when he lost his temper, Sheik thought. The way his face flushed with anger he did not show often, the arch of his brows and the tightening of his mouth to a thin pink line—he was nothing short of delicious. Idly he had to wonder whether many others had eyed the Hero of Time the same way; it was not unlikely. "Betrayal is an ugly mess to clean up. It is best that you have as little to do with it as possible. Sometimes it… _changes_ people."

"I believe I have already had contact with it. How was knocking me out and preventing me from fighting alongside what allies I had left any different?" the Hero of Time shot back scathingly.

Reeling as if he had been punched, Sheik realized with a jolt that Link was right. How _had_ what he'd done been any different? He might as well have turned traitor himself for all the good it had done! "… Forgive me. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have chosen a different course of action."

The reply only incensed the Hylian further. "If you had been _thinking clearly_? I thought that was your _strong point_! You're a Sheikah; your people always seem to be about one step ahead. How is it that you were not _thinking clearly_?"

"Because all I was thinking about was how to keep you safe. This isn't anything like unsealing temples in Hyrule. We're fighting _people_—not Octoroks, not Moblins, not Like-Likes or Morpha or even a shadow of yourself. And… the people you will have to fight will do everything they can to kill you. You cannot hold back.

"… I only wished you had not been dragged into this. Perhaps it is the will of the goddesses, and in that case who am I to challenge the Trinity? But it is cruel, to make you into a weapon against other people… I know you just well enough to wonder whether you will ever sleep peacefully again, after your first kill."

The cutting remark he had been ready to make died before it ever left his lips. Stunned, Link could only look at the Sheikah… he hadn't even thought about _whom _it was he'd be forced to fight. Friendly faces, people who only hours before had drunk watered-down mead with him and made toasts and cracked jokes—he would have had to fight _them_ if Sheik had done nothing. "… I…"

"… I like that about you, though." Sheik smiled crookedly.

"Huh?"

"Your naïveté. For a man of your age you're remarkably innocent—I wanted to preserve that." The Sheikah turned to walk away.

"… Wait! I… 'm sorry."

His turbaned head turned back towards the Hylian. "… You should not feel any need to apologize. This was my fault. I'm sorry." He turned his face back to the invisible path laid out before him, and walked on; he would not look back.

--

_Tump. Tumptumptumptumptump—_"Wait a minute, Sheik, don't leave yet! I-I still wanted to tell you something!" The Sheikah turned around (despite himself) just before Link plowed right into him, in his haste to prevent his departure.

"… Now that we're both on the ground, what was it that you needed so badly to tell me?" For the matter, Sheik noted somewhat uncomfortably, the Hylian was sprawled on top of him—and Farore, he was heavy! It was probably a mix of the swordsman's equipment and muscular build; if only it wasn't right on top of him…

"… I missed you, Sheik. I always wondered if I would ever see you again. I never forgot you. I _couldn't_ forget you." Sensing the Sheikah's discomfort, Link pushed himself off to the side and sat up. "I… I kept looking for you. Every time I heard a harp playing I looked to see if it was you. I played the songs you taught me on an ordinary ocarina so I wouldn't warp everywhere and you could find me if you were there to hear me." He shook his head. "It… it just seems so stupid now. I gave up looking, and then… and then I get dumped into this place by the Triforce and all of a sudden I found you. I…" The words locked in his throat, and with a growl of frustration he took a breath. "I don't know why I can't say it. I… l-l-… I _love_ you, damn it!"

"Link…" Sheik looked at the Hylian again. "Link… you are the Hero of Time. I… I'm expendable, you realize. If you die Hyrule will weep blood for you, if I die hardly anyone will know the difference. We're in a war… are you sure you even want to form any attachments to someone who may very well be killed?"

"Do you like me that way or not?" Link demanded, abruptly.

Carmine eyes studied blue for a moment. "… Yes. I do."

"Then does it matter?"

"I suppose not." Underneath his mask Sheik smiled.

--------------------

The headache persisted. He couldn't tell who he was… whether he was the first male to have been born to the Gerudo tribe in a century, or a general with flame red hair, or a young man identical in appearance to the general wearing a flimsy silken white robe. The Gerudo warlock was most often in control, because he wielded some kind of dark, arcane power—but at the same time the young man in the white robe could keep him at bay, for the strength he commanded was older and even more arcane than the Gerudo could have dreamed—older even than the Triforce, and the Goddesses. But he quickly weakened, shadow wounds and welts dancing over his body and disappearing just as quickly as they appeared. Every so often the general could hear him moan, "Dark Mother, let me go! Don't do this to me!" and every so often he could hear the sharp crack of a whip no one in the strange space of Roy's mind wielded.

But while the Gerudo was occupied he could control himself. He—General Roy, possibly ex-general and most certainly once-lover of the prince, though likely no more—was able to drag himself over to a bush soaked in what looked like half a cup of watered-down military ration mead. Then he didn't have time to analyze any more, for a wave of nausea overcame him and he promptly lost anything he'd had in his stomach to the bush. Skull throbbing and stomach flip-flopping of its own accord, the (ex) general dry-heaved and gasped alternately, starved for air. A familiar hand came down to touch his back, rubbing it comfortingly; its counterpart tucked stray locks of red hair behind his ears while a voice he knew terribly well murmured consoling nothings to him.

"You're going to be okay, Roy… hang in there. It's all right… shhhh, it's all right…"

Roy wanted to protest. He didn't need consolation, he didn't need the prince's kindness—and then he realized he wept, not of his own accord but on the whim of the man in the silk robe, whose tears flowed freely down his own face even as he struck back at the warlock. Shakily standing, the sobs came—the tears were running out, but his breath heaved and he couldn't speak for the fresh tears that came welling up, less urgently so but present nonetheless. What could he say anyway? All he could think of was his raging headache and how he feared that being near the one person he loved the most in the entirety of the world he knew was the worst possible thing he could be doing. How long would it be before the Gerudo was purged? How long would it take for him to be free of this mess? He knew none of the answers.

He allowed the prince to hold him, and he wept… and watched miserably as the prince's image dissolved before his eyes. It was then he thought he knew true despair.

"_--ke up! –ke up!, -------ur eyes, Roy!"_

Who was it? Who was calling him?

_"—ke up! Wake up! It's only a nightmare, WAKE UP!"_

… _Oh._

He opened his eyes.

--

--

_Father Time stopped his work at the loom to watch the damage his neglected daughter had wrought with her attentions and her wrath. Finding that there had been snarls in two very, very slender threads—gossamer thin, really—he carefully, carefully untangled them, knowing that if he accidentally snapped one he would literally cut short a life—and of the lives branching out from it? They would cease to exist._

_Strangely enough, however, he soon discovered as he proceeded upward—for he dwelled in a dimension inaccessible to mortal beings and most of the various pantheons that had sprung forth over the eons, and it was infinite in all directions—that the two threads had woven themselves together in such a way that they were impossible to untangle. If he wanted to get out his spectacles he could see what the names were, but judging from the colors—one was a royal purple, bits of blue and silver peeking through the thread's dye, and the other was a cobalt blue with a little red and gold mixed in—one of the people involved was a prince. Princesses seemed to have a tendency for having pink dashed all over their purple threads, it had to be a prince… and there he was, getting off track again._

_"Old man Time," the ancient power said to himself, "Old man Time, you are losing your marbles. What to do? Order new glasses? No, the Timekeeper has already filled all the glasses in the world up to the brim with sand, so full that none of them will run! Shall I order a shot of good brandy instead?" It was one perk of being an elder power. The brandy was always best in the oldest parts of the Celestial Dimension._

_"Old man Time is losing his marbles indeed," came a sibilant tone. The Apocalyptic Mother walked in, wearing the baubles of Apocalypse for jewels as she had taken lately to doing. After so many years of having the little ones fall off the shelf—"Oops, I think that just sank Atlantis!" and "Drat, they didn't get to leave any instructions for Stonehenge!" and even "Blood of my daughters, that wiped out the dragons!"—she had taken them all and tempered their divine alloy shells, and stringing them upon a thread of ether sky she wore them like a string of celestial pearls. It was her one indulgent clothing item—she was completely nude otherwise, from more habit than unavailability of suitable garb. Skin dark as richest volcanic earth, eyes greener than the emerald forests, neither slender nor heavyset with generous curves—the Apocalyptic Mother seemed as though she would be more fit for a role as a fertility goddess._

_"Ah… dearest, do we have any more brandy?" Father Time asked, feeling lightheaded and somewhat ill at ease. He leaned against the rope that represented the locusts—a few of its component threads snapped, and with some consternation he wove six new threads in; the rope swelled three centimeters._

_"Old man Time, that was just a plague of locusts you've unleashed on those poor mortals," the Apocalyptic Mother commented dryly. "_I'm _responsible for destroying them, not you. And you certainly don't need any more brandy; you've drunk enough to put all seventeen of the youngest gods out of commission for a full eon! I wonder whatever we saw in each other, you insufferable lush."_

_"I'm not drunk, dear. As a matter of fact, I can see the cloth of Time in its full splendor right now."_

_"That's your sight blurring, honey. Old man Time, you really ought to take a break. Perhaps you should go sleep off that brandy. I'll wake you in a century."_

_"Ugh. Fine, dear, I'll do that. Don't blame me if something happens while Time's stopped like this…"_

_"Honey, it's all the better for me." The Apocalyptic Mother smiled toothily, teeth whiter than new-fallen snow and angels' wings. "If something happens, I'll come wake you."_


	17. Enter the golden power

Hello all, sorry about the long wait. I've been sorta slumped, but my beta's gotten back to me with an a-okay and so here's chapter seventeen. Lots of POV switches, so be on the lookout. Standard disclaimer applies--I make nothing for writing this, so please no lawsuits. Enjoy!

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* * *

"They say that one out of a thousand children is born with the innate ability to perceive far more than those other children without this ability do. They see ghosts, hear whispers on the wind, prophesy in their sleep and watch elated—or horrified—as these prophecies come true. One out of every thousand children has this power.

One out of every thousand of _these_ children possesses a power far stranger—and sometimes terrifying. They can truly _see_; what stretches out before them when they close their eyes is the warp and weft of time's fabric itself. They call these children 'the Daughters of Father Time' for it is said that no male child has ever lived past infancy who possessed this power…"

--_The Time Seeker: A comprehensive guide to the inexplicable phenomena of Time_ by B. Chronos-Escher(1)

--

--

"You're awake." The voice was curt, female—and he couldn't remember whose it was. Still… she had to be of the Sixth Unit—there lived no people in Altea who knew his fighting style better than his own chosen unit, the one that he had spilled tears and sweat and blood for. There were none better suited to counter his combative abilities, should he prove hostile. _Very cunning of my lord prince_, he thought with a bitter smile.

Slowly, he sat up and turned to face his guard.

For a moment he could remember the sharp tang of blood in the air, the smooth shaft of a perfectly fletched arrow leaving an imprint in his hand as he released it, its steel head buried in a young woman's throat—and the cry. The sharp, heartbroken cry of disbelief; the murderous rage that followed as he looked up and met another young woman's eyes… such unbelievable rage that he thought he would have been dead and buried six feet under if looks could truly be fatal. "Jeanne," he said simply, and left it as that.

"General." She looked conflicted for a mere second; then the look was gone to be replaced by a cold, hard expression that sent a bloody chill up Roy's spine. Perhaps within her was the grief-stricken lover whose voice had been raised that night, but whoever this woman was Jeanne looked nothing like it. Strictly professional, her eyes were cold and calculating, hands poised to draw weapons if need be—her stance was exactly as he'd taught her so long ago.

"Am I to be imprisoned here?" he asked. He did not try to convince her that it wasn't right—he felt like it was a necessary measure himself. Who knew how long it would be before he acted in a manner out of his right mind again? "… Does my lord prince wish not to see my face?"

The vehemence of her answer shocked him. "He is _pining_ for you. How _dare_ you suggest his Highness is uncaring? _We_ of the Sixth Unit made the executive decision to detain you as long as we deem necessary, until we find suitable evidence that there is no longer the threat of your betrayal. And that," she growled, "that may be a long time coming."

He saw that there was no use in putting up any show of resistance, or attempting to argue his case. Nodding in acquiescence, he replied, "As you will, then."

* * *

The dark presence struck Zelda like a hammer blow to her skull; she collapsed to her knees and gritted her teeth as pain pulsed through her head. She could feel it grotesquely parodying her heartbeat, and panic overrode her control. "He's here… _he's here!_" she cried, oblivious to the triangular flare of light becoming more and more evident on her left hand. The crest of the Triforce of Wisdom shone unbearably bright, so much that it hurt to look at the princess—and in the camp, two other lights of the same intensity answered.

------

"**It is time.**" 

"Yes, Din… it is time."

"_Let us invoke this magic together, then. The golden power of the days before will work as it was made to—let _us_ use it now, instead of the mortals who coveted it and bled for it."_

-----

He clutched his head for the searing pain shooting through it, barely aware that his tormented shrieking had alerted half the army. The crest of the Triforce of Power blazed on the back of his right hand, and inside his head a deep voice shouted arcane words—words that were quickly overcome by golden power, power emanating from his hand and from elsewhere. Heat scoured through him, purging him with a feeling like bitter medicine and strong liquor. Soon there was only one other voice within, and _he_ watched quietly; his face was tracked with even bitterer tears.

The Triforces parted from their bearers and flew up into the sky, converging to become a beacon—a powerful beacon, a beacon that could be seen all across the land. And people saw.

--

The woman who wished to take the throne saw the golden power floating in the sky, power to do as she willed. It called to her—she answered by pushing her faithful wyvern knight off his mount and taking off, chasing after the Triforce's unheard siren song. "Wait for me!" she cried. "I will be queen of Altea, I will be queen! Give me the power and it shall be so!"

--

Elias looked up at the light blazing in reflective glory off the hard dirt. The watering hole Link found had only lasted for a mere four days; he was looking for a new one—and yet in his mind's eye he saw green pastures and water flowing aplenty in lakes that never dried up. The wells never ran low, the children laughed and played barefoot on fertile, supple earth. His wife had the ability to return to the beautiful, carefree woman she'd once been, who laughed so freely he'd fallen in love with her laughing eyes.

He put down his shovel and began to walk, hypnotized. If he could only reach it… "If I could only reach it, my family would never suffer again…"

--

Marth looked up. Directly above him hovered the golden light of Hyrule's goddesses; the golden light called him. He felt burdened, though… as if he were being weighed, being judged. And then he saw—the wyvern streaking through the sky, and the middle-aged man trekking wearily through the desert, and then himself, standing just beneath the light.

"Your Highness?" Chester stood behind him, offering him the reins to his Pegasus. "You… you need that power, don't you? I can see it in your eyes, Your Highness. Here… take Etherlight. She can fly you there."

Shaking his head, he turned and met Zelda's gaze, her blue eyes tired and expression drained. "Princess… Princess, you should take it."

"No." She would not be swayed. "I cannot. I will not have history repeat… and I cannot restore the land, Marth. I do not know it or love it nearly as much as you do. Go!" She pushed him gently towards the Pegasus.

"Go, Your Highness, before it is too late!" Chester shoved the reins into the prince's hands. "Fly, Etherlight!" The Pegasus whickered and took flight, soaring into the air and heading straight for the golden light. Marth closed his eyes before the brilliance could blind him.

--

"I will have that power, I will have it!" she chanted, the words her mantra as she flew headlong on her seized wyvern towards the light. It grew brighter, and her crazed eyes took it in; drank it in greedily and demanded more. Then her wyvern slowed… and she dug her heels into its sides to make it fly faster. The creature squalled in pain.

"I _will_ have that power! I _will_ rule Altea, and I _will _have my vengeance on that man, and I _will_ give my family power, and I _will_ make it so my poor feckless husband has no need to carry that blasted shovel around all the time!" She kicked the wyvern harder. "Embyrr's name will live forever!" Her crazed eyes stared unfocusedly at the shining light before her, so close and yet so far away… and what was that white thing climbing into the sky just below it?

--

"Go, Etherlight!" The prince did not kick the mount—partially because it wasn't his Pegasus, and partially because he knew pegasi responded better to verbal commands than physical ones. He never did see any sense in beating a mount to get it to respond quicker; it seemed needlessly cruel to him. It was only the verbal urging that kept him from being terrified, however. The ground fell away quickly, and Etherlight—for all that she was a big Pegasus mare—was only so much between him and a long, long fall. "Please don't drop me," he added quietly, as an afterthought. The Pegasus whickered at him and switched her tail, as if annoyed that he would even think she was so untrustworthy. The climb continued.

--

The man slumped to his knees. He could walk no further; though the golden light tempted him to rise and continue he had not eaten breakfast. The three children that remained had been given his share—and he was dying of thirst. His throat was dry, his tongue like sandpaper in his mouth.

One thing he had that still worked, though, was his extraordinarily sharp sight. And with it he saw, faintly—the wyvern and the woman astride it, and the Pegasus flying steadily upwards bearing a man clad in blue. Vision starting to swim, he dropped his shovel and clasped his hands together, unsteadily. "My lord gods, I beseech… thee, grant me my wish and—and hear my prayer. Grant me this one…" he stumbled, the invocation's words unfamiliar after having been in disuse for so long "grant me this one boon, that I may move on past the gates of the dark realm in peace and greet the Weeping God with a smile to warm his heart." His words were clumsy and his throat hurt, but he rushed right through to make his wish before he lost the ability to speak.

Silence. Then, a chime—like a clock striking twelve—and the man closed his eyes and slumped forward, hitting the ground with a soft thud. He did not get up.

----------------

"I will have that power, I will have it! I will _have it!_"

The wyvern screeched in pain as the woman's heels slammed into its sides, tenderizing flesh under cracking scales. It howled again as she kicked it viciously once more, and at last keened a skull-splitting, sharp note.

"Stop that, _stop that_ you infernal _beast!_"

Where was her rider, the wyvern thought. Where was the rider who was kind to her and brought her treats and pieces of jerky from his lunch? The rider who was never this loud, who never kicked her without reason, who inspected her for cracked scales and rubbed healing salves over her injuries? Where was he? She wove back and forth, looking for him. Maybe he'd fallen off while the loud woman was screaming.

"Stop that, stop that! Fly straight, damn you!"

The wyvern shrilled in pain as the woman's steel capped heels crashed into her sides once more, and decided she'd had enough. Making a tight, even turn, she spiraled into a barrel-roll and dove, straight for the ground as fast as she could.

"Stop it, stop it, _stop it_!" the woman screamed, terror written in her voice.

Ignoring the woman's shrieking, the wyvern opened her mouth and roared. Then she spiraled back up in the sky, and gradually turned herself so that she flew upside down.

It was not a maneuver wyverns liked to do for very long, but her rider was experienced and knew how to stay on when they had to do such aerial acrobatics. This woman was not, however, and she scrabbled at the wyvern's scaly hide with well manicured fingernails before slipping off.

Exactly one hundred twenty-five feet and six inches below, a ravine twenty meters east of the Altean army encampment bared stony fangs and waited patiently.

---------------

He was so close he could touch the light. The golden power called him, promising everything—even the freedom to love whomever he chose and be accepted by all for his choice. Then he heard the scream.

The golden light fell silent, and he heard himself shout, "Fly, Etherlight!" As if knowing his mind, the Pegasus sped towards the figure free-falling through the air. Above the figure a wyvern wheeled and shrilled something like triumph.

"_Help me!_" came the scream again, a distinctly female voice. And then he was underneath the falling figure, and he caught her before she could fall any further. She smiled at him prettily when he set her down on the Pegasus' back, to sit side-saddle between him and Etherlight's neck. Before he could say a thing there was a knife at his throat.

-

"How fortunate. Prince Marth himself comes to me! Perhaps to declare me the true ruler of this kingdom? I don't need your tiara, thanks. I'll commission my own crown." She flapped a hand imperiously. "Now take this charming little winged horsie and fly me to the golden power. It's rightfully mine."

If not for the fact that she was already on the Pegasus and that she was holding him at knifepoint Marth would have gladly dropped her. But he didn't have that option. The "charming little winged horsie" snorted and took off towards the golden power, purposely at a tangent so as to miss it.

"… Un… ful…"

"What's that, Marth? Speak up!" She poked the knifepoint in a little further and a bead of blood welled up.

"I shudder to think what should become of my people under your rule if you are this ungrateful to someone who just _saved your life_." His voice carried a biting edge. Etherlight whickered at him, as if to warn him of some impending trouble, and then took a sharp upward turn, flying while tilted at an angle.

Immediately the woman began to slide off. Nearly dropping the knife, she had no choice but to grab the prince around the waist to keep from falling. "This just won't do," she declared, and as the Pegasus took a turn to begin another upward spiral she snatched the reins from the prince's hands and pushed.

Caught by surprise, the prince had no chance to brace himself. He fell. It was slightly unnerving to see Etherlight go berserk trying to go after him, but he appreciated the Pegasus' loyalty all the same. Closing his eyes, he missed the tendrils of golden light reaching out to him.

--

_"That isn't good at all. That one can't die yet! Old Man Time, get your ass out of bed, we have a crisis on our hands!" The Apocalyptic Mother watched as an ever-shifting thread of copper, silver, and gold wove itself through the tapestry of Time. It wound itself around a steadily fraying blue-and-silver shot purple strand and stayed, for a moment—extending into another moment, and another. It was stuck. The purple thread froze where it was, neither unraveling nor repairing itself. _

_"Dear, what is it?" Father Time yawned and stretched, one handed—the other was raised, palm outwards. Time had stopped. Leaning closer to the cloth—and looking considerably more sober than he had in ages—he inspected the weave. "… What in the name of--!"_

--

Carefully balancing one child on her hip and cradling another to her chest, a young woman with flame-bright hair stared at the sky as a bolt of gold streaked through it. "_Father Time, what is it that thy will has wrought?_" There was no answer, but in her vision came also the image of golden cogs and gears grinding to a halt.

"Embyrr! Get back to work, you lazy drudge, or I'll have you whipped!"

"Yes ma'am." She shook her head to clear the visions from her eyes and carried the children into the house. With a resounding thud, the woman shut the door behind her. The dust the door had kicked up never quite settled to the ground, frozen in midair.

* * *

All right guys, that's all. See you next chapter. Read and review, please? 

(1)Here I present a bad pun. B. Chronos-Escher abbreviated becomes "BCE", which also stands for "Before Common Era." … It's a time/history joke. XP Sort of.


	18. Saved, and yet condemned

Hi guys, Hikaru here. Standard disclaimer applies--I'm back from the dead! Special thanks as always to my lovely goddess of a beta The Tears of Ages! Yaaaay!

Erm, but anyway. Warnings this time? Alcohol usage. I need not remind you that the primary pairing in this thing consists of two males, if you've read this far and not understood that then I have to wonder whether you've really been reading it at all. Hrhrrmm. So, if for some reason you don't wish to be reading this story and you've gotten to chapter 18... well, apologies to you, but there's an easy escape route on the Fanfiction menu bar up there at the top of the page. No problem.

For the rest of you who don't mind, here's chapter 18! Enjoy!

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_Thud_. "O-ouch…" 

Darkness. Silence. The prince sat up warily, ruefully—he hurt, and it seemed as if he'd seen the place before. "Please, let me not be trapped there again…"

"_Hush, child._"

"**Be still, child.**"

"Calm yourself, child."

Light. Dimly Marth was aware of the sound of clarion bells, and a faint silvery laugh. "What… what is this place?"

The goddesses remained silent. Newly fearful, the prince stood and looked around some more. Just as he took a step to walk away from his point of appearance there came a new voice.

-

"Child, I don't know what you are. I've never seen your ilk before, only in my firstborn daughters' nightmares. In those days they were dressed much more sensibly—just look at what you're wearing! It looks so terribly impractical, and there are so many layers!" Bare feet padded softly over to stand before the prince.

"Who are—oh! I beg your pardon, I did not mean to look!" Flushing with embarrassment, Marth looked away.

The Apocalyptic Mother laughed. "What's the matter honey, never seen this much breast in one place before? It's okay to look, you know." She winked playfully, and Marth's face flushed a darker shade of red.

"I-it's not proper…"

"Hon, I _am_ the mother of those that spawned all creation. _I _make the rules in this place."

"What about me?" came the mock-injured tone of Father Time.

"Oh yes, and Old man Time there makes a few as well. Case in point—you're not in Altea anymore, child." The Apocalyptic Mother sashayed away, a seductive sway to her hips; she planted a kiss on Father Time's cheek in passing and went to check the Time Loom.

-

"Hrmph. For all that I've been married to her since the beginning of time she still makes me feel old, that one." With something of a careful eye, Father Time studied the prince. "You, on the other hand, make me feel positively ancient. This dimension is not accessible to mortals; why are you here?"

The prince dared not meet the elder power's eyes. "… I do not know. I was supposed to die… I was pushed off a Pegasus and was falling—it must have been hundreds of feet, but I was supposed to die."

-

The Apocalyptic Mother stopped her inspection to look at him. "Do you _want _to die? We can restart Time and send you back there to die properly, or we can sit here and discuss why we can't _let _you die."

Marth looked up, then, and made sure to focus on the Apocalyptic Mother's emerald forest eyes. "Do you… do you know something about why I am here?"

"Right now you're temporarily equal in power to us Elders; however, you cannot use it due to your mortal body. Mortals are distressingly prone to dying when attempting to wield such power, since their frail bodies cannot handle it. I'm sure you have enough myths where you come from of heroes who simply disappear from the backlash of whatever divine power they used." Her stark white teeth flashed in a smile, and the prince shuddered.

"But… why? I do not understand."

"You've been saying that a lot since you've gotten here. Why this, why that… calm down, honey. We'll get to the 'why' soon enough. Here's the 'how,' though." The Apocalyptic Mother paused to snap her fingers and magically undo part of Marth's tunic—just enough to bare a portion of his chest.

Startled, the prince squeaked in spite of himself, and when he understood that the fastenings suddenly no longer wished to function properly he held the unfastened portion together with his fingers.

"Oh, _stop_ that. You just spent a month in my daughter's realm _naked_, I don't see why you're getting all embarrassed about a little strip of skin like that now." The Apocalyptic Mother cackled a little when Marth's face went violently red. "Now that's a good look for you. Flushed, embarrassed, clothes askew… makes you look like you've been tumbled recently. Now, down to business. Take your hands away from that tunic before I bind them to the floor. If I forget to undo the bindings you may find yourself inexplicably stuck to the ground when you go back to the mortal realms."

Reluctantly, Marth removed the hands holding his tunic closed. He felt more self-conscious than he could ever remember feeling with the elder goddess' eyes boring right through him, until at last…

"Aha, there it is!" The Apocalyptic Mother tapped a bit of skin right between his pectorals, and Marth yelped as something _solidified_ there to leave a golden crest on his skin. The Triforce. "Although I thought this thing usually chose _Hylians…_ have you ever been to Hyrule?"

"… Once. In my youth… I went to the temples of the goddesses and asked for their blessings, and received them. But… what has that to do with this?"

The Apocalyptic Mother looked at him. "You go to the goddesses but know nothing of their lore? _Shameful_. The Triforce is the power of the goddesses condensed—or what was left after they created Hyrule and its various races. It is called the 'Golden Power' by some and can grant any wish to the one who touches it. And this time, for some reason, it saw fit to reach out to you, instead. You cannot wield its power, but it will grant you a wish."

"A wish?" echoed the prince, feeling thrown for a loop. "... Because of this emblem on my chest? How… strange."

"No less strange than your attachment to a young man who seems your complete opposite. What on earth _do_ you see in that boy, anyway?" the Apocalyptic Mother asked him, brow creased in thought. "He doesn't listen when common sense speaks to him, he does stupid things like ride out straight into a blizzard and get his horse and nearly himself killed in the process, and he thought he could take on a thousand-soldier army with just a meager force he picked out. If I were in your shoes I wouldn't know whether to be pleased with his pluck or just vexed with his hotheaded logic."

The prince didn't know what to say. For a moment his tongue was clumsy in his mouth and the words would not form—and then he understood. "I trust him," he answered simply. "I love him."

"So what is it that you wish, boy?" Father Time toyed with his spectacles and finally put them on. "I can read your time-thread for you if you'd like another perspective."

"Hold it, Old Man Time. We didn't tell him about the rules against being a mortal in this dimension."

-

Rules? There were rules in a place where the air shimmered with thread and yards and yards of glimmering, ethereal cloth—quite possibly miles—lay piled about in heaps? There were rules in a place that clearly defied all mortal logic? "What rules would those be?"

Setting his spectacles firmly on the bridge of his nose, Father Time produced a book and riffled through it briefly before coming to a stop on the six hundredth page. "Hrhmm, yes… Article ninety-seven, clause three, paragraph… erm… six, I believe."

"That would be seven, dear," the Apocalyptic Mother corrected him.

Pouting at being corrected—an exceedingly odd sight considering just how _old_ the elder god was supposed to be—Father Time went on. "Let's see… 'In the event that a mortal should wander into the gods' dimensions, aided by godly power or an object of godly power, there shall be a grace period in which the mortal shall escape judgment. Should this grace period be pushed to expiration, said mortal may be subject to instant death and complete erasure of all spiritual and physical traces. Resurrection of this mortal is thusly made impossible, even for any goddess or god who might so choose to attempt.' No, wait, that's not the right one…" He turned a couple pages. "Aha! There it is! 'Should the mortal's power—given to him or her by an object of godly power—be lost, drained, or confiscated whilst (s)he sojourns in the gods' dimension, his or her grace period will be instantly void and (s)he may be subject to instant death and complete erasure of all spiritual and physical traces. This is irreversible.' How grim! Honey, why did we write these anyway?"

She ignored the elder god and addressed Marth directly. "So now you know. You, boy, are under that law at this very moment. Know this—if and when you make your wish, you will have to be very, very sure that that particular wish is phrased to act accordingly to your will. You will only get one chance—the chances are high that upon making a wish the power will drain from the crest of the Triforce upon you and you will quite probably be killed by the sheer power in the air you breathe here. Just… keep that in mind. If you die here, while carrying the Triforce, that will be the last anyone sees of you or that trinket of Hyrule's triad.

"But there isn't any pressure for you to make a wish quickly. You have time—that's something there's plenty of here. Nothing's going to go awry while you're away—Old Man Time froze the flow of time in your dimension. You could spend a thousand years here and return to Altea to find nothing has aged a jot while you languished in the realm of the Elder Powers for a full millennium. You'd best think carefully anyway. In the meantime, want some brandy? Old Man Time can tell you how good it is." The elder goddess smiled toothily at him, and Marth suppressed the urge to back away or curl up into a ball. What kind of a choice was wasting the power of three goddesses or death?

------

He stayed anyway. It was impossible to tell how many Altean days had passed—each time he asked the question, naturally, the elder powers would reply, "None."—but the clock was ticking and he could feel it. Marth felt himself beginning to lose touch with what he knew and loved—his memories began to fade to gray, and his favorite tastes and scents and places all grew fuzzy and indistinct. He couldn't even recall what Roy's kisses had tasted like—all he could taste was the brandy on his tongue, heady stuff that made his head spin and his throat burn when he tossed back a shot. He hadn't had any since, but the flavor remained as a constant reminder—he was not where he was supposed to be.

Father Time, he noticed, had a disturbing habit of drinking the brandy like water. Sometimes, when he had a little too much, the time loom began to shift, as if writing in the seconds that ticked by before the elder god sobered and stopped it again. The elder goddess, seeing this, merely laughed and continued to lovingly polish her favorite bauble of Apocalypse—an immense ball of crystal that seemed quite a bit larger than the castle at home in Altea, or so Marth thought.

The Apocalyptic Mother had offered him a pomegranate, once. It was brilliant red and the seeds looked delicious—though the prince thought he would willingly eat anything if only to wash away the taste of brandy on his tongue—but fearing the consequences Marth politely declined. What if it were to trap him in the gods' dimension? Better not to risk it—and indeed he was not hungry. No matter how much time passed he did not feel the need to eat, drink, or sleep. It seemed strange that this was so, for in the melting-wax woman's realm his mortal needs were not restrained.

"The bringer of nightmares is her sister," was the answer when he finally mustered the courage to ask—for who knew what could offend these strange, ancient powers?—"They both gain power from the sleep of mortals—she from consuming the memory of completed dreams and her twin from the lingering fear in mortal nightmares. Of course you would sleep in her realm, so she might siphon energy from you as you dreamed. You would not remember any of it, but had you remained she would have fed so much on your dream energy that your very soul would have been irreparably damaged. You're quite fortunate, you know. To think one of her creations would turn on her to save you… it's not something that would usually ever happen to an elder power."

-----

Days passed. At least, Marth thought they were days. Quite frankly, he could not tell. The realm was in a perpetual state of twilight, the twinkle of the time loom's threads like the first stars to appear in a night sky. He knew only the sense of urgency building up within him—that sense that he had not the time to be lingering on like this. He had to leave, and soon.

Each time he took a breath to make a wish, though, the words caught in his throat and he stifled his thoughts for fear of wasting the one wish branded on his chest. His thoughts thereafter drifted to his kingdom, frozen in time—and to a shock of red hair, held in check by a band of blue and gold, and warm blue eyes.

The days turned to weeks.

The dim twilit realm of the Elder Powers ate into the prince like a parasite. Slowly, he could feel himself warping. He was no longer the man he once was—sometimes he looked up at the time loom's warp and weft through the eyes of a small boy, sometimes as an old man, and even once as a woman. He reverted to his normal form if he thought about it, but the changes came fast and distressingly often.

The Apocalyptic Mother simply laughed at his distress. When she told him of her firstborn daughters' habitual games—tormenting each other with horrors unimaginable until they bled and the dimension shook for their screams—Marth had to wonder whether it hadn't been both the elder gods' faults for neglecting their children.

He could not make a wish. The words would not come. He felt hot tears pricking his eyes and rubbed them away, for it seemed a waste to cry over a wish whose words would not come. No matter, though. It was not for lack of words that he could not wish. He was afraid.

------

The weeks turned to months.

He was lost. He did not know who he was, or what he had been. He remembered only the blue eyes and not the fiery temper. The red remained as a vivid flash of memory that taunted him with pangs of longing, though he could not recall why. The shifts through various shapes and forms were habitual, and sometimes days passed where he merely shifted from one shape to another—from serpent to dragon to bird to fish to man again, then to a woman, and the cycle went on. He spent an afternoon as a cat, purring as Father Time scratched him behind the ears absentmindedly; a morning was consumed as he preened his brindled griffin feathers.

But one day he woke up and found himself a man once more. He knew his own name, and he understood that he was not supposed to be in this place, for it wreaked havoc with his body and mind. He knew that he was lost, and neither of the elder powers would help him.

Desperate, he prayed—what a feeling of _déja vu_ it was!—and the chime of distant bells answered him.

_"Look no further, dear prince, than your heart. The answers you seek lie in plain sight, if only you could see!"_

So he searched, and found only a wall of mist blocking his way. Heart fluttering, he walked into the cool dark of the haze.

------

The months became thus a year.

Past the barrier of fog, the prince gazed about at the ravaged space that had once been his inner dreamscape. He knew that he had little time left, for all that remained of the light that had once flooded this place with warmth was the Triforce, glinting coldly within the wasteland the place had become. Just beneath it was the smallest patch of green, a single rose blooming determinedly. One tiny rose, where once there had been a million…

He knew exactly what needed to be done. "Hear me, Triad, I would that you grant me this boon!

"Din, Nayru, Farore! I hold within me the Triforce of Power, Wisdom, Courage! Now let me make good on my one wish and release the Triforce so it may be found by another! I wish…" and here he paused.

"I wish for him to be happy."

For a moment there was only the faint plip of a single tear hitting the polished starless-night tiles. As all went black, a sudden gale shrieked through and the very last thing Marth registered was that sickening, abrupt falling sensation one sometimes got before waking up.

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A/N: I think we're one or two chapters from the end. We'll see. In the meantime, drop me a line! The review button compels you to press it! --haha, I'm kidding. Please do, though. I love reviews! Thanks for reading! 


	19. The letter, unwritten

Last chapter. As usual, standard disclaimers apply. Everybody send my lovely beta The Tears of Ages love, because she's amazing for slogging through so many chapters' worth of drafts!

Anyway, there are no real warnings this time. Enjoy!

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He dreamed that before him floated a sphere of golden light. Of course, it wasn't just light—he knew that much, for from within the sphere were voices—three female voices, singing harmoniously in a language he had never heard before.

But the harmony wasn't the only thing he heard—there was the inexplicable quiet. The angry warlock, the weeping man—both were suddenly gone, and he felt a rift for their absence. It seemed strange, to hear silence where there had before been the clashing of spells, the shouting of the raging warlock, and the weeping man's tortured cries. The cacophony was reduced to nothing, and he was alone.

Alone. Unloved. Unwanted. He'd betrayed his love and let the angry warlock possess him, twisted by lust for power and crazed by the knowledge that his love no longer remembered him. For a moment, he wished only to die—and then a ray of warmth pierced him, and a voice spoke in him.

_"He wished that you were happy. We shall make it so."_

The light blazed brightly, and he was consumed.

------

"—_that's why he doesn't even remember what he did when he wakes up next to you after screwing you into the floor. I hear he might actually propose to some princess who wandered into the castle a few days back. She's pretty, you know. And female… you never could give him an heir, after all."_

"… Shut up," he told the voice calmly. "I know what you want now, and I don't care what you'll offer me. No."

_Once upon a time_

An arrow was flying straight at him, blackened tip glinting deadly in the moonlight. Reflexively he sidestepped and snagged the arrow by the shaft, looking around for the archer who'd shot it. When he looked at the fletching, though, he recognized it as one of Belle's arrows—and that meant only one thing. Stepping out of the shrubbery, he met the guard's eyes with a nonchalant greeting.

"Oh no… General?"

"If I had been an enemy scout I would likely be dead by now. Well-shot," he told her, idly spinning the arrow in his hand. Turning it so that it was pointed tip-first at himself, he walked over to her—_he knew this moment was dangerous, knew it when he found his eyes involuntarily straying to the lightly tanned column of her throat, eyeing her jugular—_"Here. Save you arrows for the ones you intend to turn into pincushions, will you?" He grinned, and she took the arrow from him with a smile.

"Thank you, General. Shouldn't you be resting, though? Your watch isn't for another two hours or so, sir."

"Mm… two hours, is it? I've been rather restless, and I don't think I'll be able to sleep. Perhaps I'll occupy my time some other way…" He paused, and smiled morosely. "Maybe I will write him a letter."

_Long ago and far away_

He blinked back the tears welling up in his eyes and nodded, allowing the Sixth Unit to escort him as he carried Marth to the healers' bay, and if the healers who tended to the prince noticed the saltwater tracking its way down his face they said nothing. Caleb nodded at him, patting him solidly on the back in encouragement before leaving to help the unit determine who was to be left behind to guard the infirmary. Roy felt no less guilty about the whole affair, but when a healer informed him that the prince was in stable condition and should wake up soon he went to sit by the prince's bedside.

For all that Marth had closed his blank eyes, lying still on the bed like a beautiful corpse, his hand was warm. The general closed his own eyes and remembered to keep his grip on the prince's hand relaxed, so he wouldn't hurt him any further.

When the prince opened his eyes, blue orbs regaining their usual lively spark, the general leaned down and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

_There lived a prince_

The blank look on the prince's face as he asked that deadly question registered, and immediately Roy regretted his jubilant affection. What if he'd scared him away? But… Marth was no careless player—that, the general knew for sure. Something had clearly happened for them to have fallen into bed so fast. He cherished the memory of their shared passion, but knew he would have to wait until the prince's memory truly returned. "… Ah. Well, I was under the impression that we had been making love," he answered, thoughtfully rather than crushed like he felt he'd been once before. "I… must confess I did enjoy myself," he added mischievously, grinning like a schoolboy as the prince turned three shades of red.

"I see," the prince replied, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Worry not, Highness, I was quite willing to be on the receiving end." Roy pulled away for a moment to don his breeches. "And… Marth, I know it will sound strange, and possibly you may wonder what strange poison the apothecary has dosed me with, but I swear it is the truth—I love you. And I will always love you, and I'll wait for the day when you remember what it was we had before my rash folly turned everything upon its head."

_And a general_

"—to inform you that His Royal Highness has found a lovely woman who will serve as his official companion for all royal functions from here on. Your presence will not be required, General, save when it is requested." The man's oily tone made him feel sick, but—_had he been here before? It felt so familiar, like he'd already been here, like he'd already done this, had this conversation…_—for some reason, he felt curiously at peace when he reached up to his throat to toy with the pendant hidden under his collar.

"Is that so?" he heard his voice reply, coldly. _No, stop. This is where everything began to go wrong…_ "I cannot imagine you are the most reliable source of the prince's feelings, however. Though he may be occasionally exasperated with me, for my youth and hot temper, my lord prince does respect me enough that he would come tell me this to my face, Xavier."

"Heh. You, boy, know nothing of which you speak. You see, 'tis this woman who has become His Royal Highness' new favorite companion… in more than one way. You may ask any of the castle servants, and those who gossip will tell you exactly that." The man looked insufferably smug—_how did he ever fall for it? He'd never liked him, even if the prince trusted him—_and suddenly Roy understood. The man was _lying_.

"Mm. I see. I believe I shall have to go congratulate the prince for deciphering the secret of falling in and out of love, then. The last I heard he was very much enamored of a certain muscular redhead shorter than he with an affinity for sharp metal objects." The corner of the general's mouth perked up into a half-smile, and inside where the advisor could not hear him he laughed uproariously. He'd heard exactly that from some of the serving maids as he walked by one day, the girl laughing merrily as her gossip partner realized exactly who she was talking about.

"What? P-preposterous!" Ah. So the man was indeed lying. He wouldn't stutter if the prince had truly sent him. "This woman is blonde, and very well known at court!"

"So he's fucking Raine? Wow. That's a surprise. She's quite the fiery one, although I assume you'd know that from the several times you made passes at her and got summarily rejected." Roy couldn't stop the ear-to-ear grin on his face, even as the advisor turned several shades of red—he looked angry, at that—for his uncouth language.

"N-no! He's not having anything to do with those heathens you call soldiers! His Highness' companion is a respectable woman of the court!"

The general laughed, at this point. The advisor had taken the bait—hook, line, and sinker. "Well, now. Do you want to know what _I _heard? Even if you don't, I'll tell you anyway." He walked up to the advisor and stared him in the eye, confident and proud. Xavier, a head taller than him, flinched. "I heard, you see, that my lord prince is in love. Very much, so… so much that he will never have any children, for the one whom he loves cannot bear him any."

The advisor glared as best as he could, but quailed under the general's steady gaze. "I-is that so? What, does he love a nun?"

"Let me tell you a secret, Xavier." Roy smiled, toothily. "He loves a soldier. A soldier who left his homeland in search of the prince who accidentally took his heart home, you see. Would you like to know who that is?"

"P-preposterous! What prince would fall in love with a lowly _soldier_? And a _male_ soldier, at that?"

"Oh, but it's true." The general grinned like a schoolboy, then, knowing the tide had turned in his favor this time. This time, things were different. He knew better, now. "You see, I _know_. Because there is one person whom he holds at night and whispers tender things to, and swears he'll always love and always cherish."

Xavier had gone pale, perhaps sensing that the conversation was rapidly shifting out of his favor. "How would you know that, knave? You're naught but the stuck-up young general His Highness took in out of _pity_!"

"Hm. Pity it may have been, but respect it is now." Roy turned to look out the window at the gently falling snow outside. "And how would I know, indeed? For love of my lord prince, I came here. And for his love I will stay. This is my home now, and I will remain here for as long as my lord prince will have me. It matters not what you say to me."

_And they were very much in love_.

He rode out into the gentle snowfall, sticking his tongue out to catch a snowflake as if he were but a small boy. It was cold, but not terribly so—his black gelding whickered at him, as if sensing the turmoil in his thoughts. Absentmindedly he patted the horse's neck. "I missed you, boy."

The gelding snorted, as if saying, "You silly man, what are you talking about?"

"The wind is picking up. Let's go back, Artemis."

Turning back towards the castle, Artemis trotted easily towards the warmth of the stables he knew waited for him. The expression on his rider's face was something of a deep, profound calm—as if a conundrum he'd long sought the answer for had finally been resolved.

-----

Outside, a blizzard raged. He'd barely finished tending to Artemis before it had come, howling its fury and piling snow everywhere. It would be beautiful, once the storm had passed—new snow everywhere, unbroken, clean, white and wonderful. He could take Marth outside, get him away from those matrimony-minded advisors and let him loosen up a bit—maybe even throw a couple snowballs at him.

But that was something for later. Right now, he had someplace to be.

-----

"—is unbecoming, that you grovel for a _commoner_! No matter that he is your general, he is still a commoner and no amount of frills, lace, or prestige that you might give him will change that!" The man's voice sounded out into the hallways, so adamant he seemed.

"That would be all right. I've never liked frills or lace anyway, and I don't really see the need to doll someone up in such when more practical fabric would do just as well," Roy drawled from the doorway.

Marth looked up from his desk, shocked. "Roy? Is… is that you?"

"I apologize for forgetting to knock, my prince."

The prince replaced his pen and stood, abruptly. "Xavier, please leave. I would like to have a conversation with my general in private."

Looking as though he had something to say, the advisor left… reluctantly, one might add. Roy closed the door after him.

--

"I thought you had left this place," the prince murmured.

"And leave you behind? Never," he answered. "Never, my liege."

Marth walked up to him, wetting his lips nervously. "I was writing you a letter, my love."

"Oh? And what did this letter say?"

"… I love you. And I will always love you, no matter what." The prince laughed. "It is funny, to think of it—I wanted only to say this, and yet in the letter it is phrased so badly!"

"My prince… Marth, may I ask you something?"

"Of course, Roy."

"… Might I kiss you?"

There was a pause, and a genuine smile spread across the prince's face. "You need not even ask, my love."

And their lips met, his arms unconsciously wrapping around the prince—_his love, his and his alone, for all of time if he could help it—_as the kiss deepened. From somewhere far away there came the chime of a single, tiny bell.

"Well played, young general. Well played."

The letter, incomplete, lay where it had been forgotten.

-end-

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